All Falls Are Fatal
by meteorshowers
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock hides in the shadows, looking for Moriarty's assassins. John tries to move on and remain strong after Sherlock's death. Neither were prepared for the danger that would cross their paths as they come to terms with their feelings for each other. It becomes an inner struggle and a battle for their lives with no guarantee of survival. All Falls are Fatal.
1. Prologue

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

The name itself was so odd and unique, something he'd never heard before. But when John Watson was first introduced to the odd genius of a man, he felt that the name seemed adequate. Sherlock was a genius in every sense of the word. He was exceptionally intellectual and creative…

_He wasn't a fraud._

_He wasn't, he couldn't be._

_John knew him._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

John's feet were made of lead as he stood, heavy with every step on the concrete. His head was spinning, he had just fallen on the cold concrete.

_They both fell._

But John was standing again, moving. He was moving towards the crumpled form of his friend.

_Sherlock._

People were already crowding around, panicking, surrounding the body. John tried to breathe, and every exhale was Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

He was stuck in time, he felt like he wasn't getting any closer. But then he felt his numb fingers push at the crowd. He felt himself waver as he looked down at the blood.

_So much blood._

_And Sherlock._

_Sher-_

"I'm a Doctor… Let me come through… Let me come through please! He's my friend… He's my friend! Please!" The way was clear but hands were grabbing at his sleeves, still trying to hold him back. John could just… reach. He pulled onto the same wrist that he held onto just the night before.

_Take my hand._

_Now people will definitely talk._

_Oh. Sherlock._

There was no pulse. Nothing to feel. Just cold and silent flesh against his fingers. He didn't want to let go, he couldn't let go. Everything became too slow, it wasn't real.

_It couldn't be real._

_This was Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

Blood was rolling down his face, his eyes were pure, cold, dead. Almost as soon as John had clutched his wrist, someone pulled at John's hand, Sherlock's wrist fell from his grasp to the wet concrete with a thud. They were pulling at John again, he tried to remain grounded on his own, but they seemed so strong.

"Please, let me just…" And then he collapsed, all his weight fell onto someone else, the numbness was overwhelming, he couldn't breath, or think, or feel.

_Please._

_Please._

_Let me…_

_Stay._

John watched Sherlock's body get turned over so that he was lying on his back now. There was so much white noise, so much movement. But Sherlock was still and silent against the ground.

_More blood._

_So much more blood..._

"Oh, Jesus, no…God, no." He couldn't speak, everything came out in whimpers and slurred words. John felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders… literally. He was so heavy, he felt himself falling as fingers grasped at his clothing, trying to keep him standing. He was being pulled back from the body, but he only wanted to fall forward, clutch onto Sherlock's still form and hope to be left alone with him.

_One last time._

John had never gotten the chance to memorize everything about the man on the concrete. He never thought about it before, but right now he wanted to feel the fading warmth of Sherlock's body, the course material of that coat, the softness of his curls. He wanted to see life in those eyes, he wanted to feel a heartbeat in Sherlock's chest. He wanted Sherlock's arms to curl around him and hold him tight. He wanted Sherlock to look into his eyes with their burning intensity and say, _John, I lov-_

He looked into Sherlock's eyes again, there was nothing there. Nothing behind those ever-changing eyes.

_Grey-_

_Blue-_

_Green._

_Did it ever matter?_

_Did his eyes ever stay the same colour?_

_Well, now they would..._

"Oh, God…" John felt his heart fall, seeping through his own chest. The only thing to hold his heart in his chest was the little arteries, veins and capillaries attached. One by one, they would rip and bleed out, his heart would fall into his gut. But being a doctor, all of this sounded so improbable…

_But why was he feeling like it was happening right now, in his chest?_

_Internal bleeding. Fatal._

_His heart was falling, braking. _

_Why were falls always fatal?_

Sherlock's body was being lifted and taken away, John could only hold onto the ground beneath him. He still couldn't breath, his heart wasn't working. Nothing was working.

_But it was so cold…_

He stood up before the stretcher was completely out of sight.

_Pull yourself together._

_Stand up and breath, pump blood, think._

_You have to think._

_You didn't die when..._

_Sherlock…_

It was raining again, the heavens had opened, probably to accept the only soul that John didn't want to part with. Sherlock would have told John that he deserved to be in hell, and though John wasn't very religious, he knew that Sherlock would never descend to those flaming pits. Heaven was too good for him too, though.

_But he was gone._

_Sherlock was gone._

And John was almost gone too now. He could feel it. Something was missing, something inside him was dissolving. Getting farther and farther away.

_Sherlock._


	2. Last Requests

**Beginning of Part One**

John woke up with a gasp and a name on his lips, "Sherlock!" He sat up in his bed, still tangled in his sheets, the nightmare was fresh in his mind.

_Sherlock._

As soon as he thought the name, he felt a fresh set of tears roll down his face and blur his vision. He put his hands to his face, feeling the warmth of sweat and tears as they mingled and rolled down his face. His body shook with the sobs, getting worse as he realized that his nightmare was real.

_Sherlock fell._

_Sherlock had killed himself._

_And John had seen him do it._

_He could still see Sherlock's broken body on the concrete, the blood._

_There was so much blood… _

_It was so cold… _

The fall was only a couple days ago, but the memories made it feel like just seconds ago. The nightmare had re-played the whole thing, it was sewn to his soul with course, cold wire, sewn to his every thought, every breath. There was so much _pain_. It was almost like the memories of Afghanistan, but worse.

John remembered the day that his grandfather passed away. He had been so close to him. His grandfather was his hero, a war veteran with many stories about the Great War. John would listen to his stories, excited for the day that he could become a hero like his grandfather. John told him that he would become a soldier too someday, he'd save lives. When his grandfather died, John didn't cry, he didn't know what to feel. But one night, he had a dream about his grandfather. In the dream, he was telling John another story, a story that John had never heard before. Thinking back to it now, John had no recollection of the story his grandfather told him. But when he told his mum about that dream in the morning, she told John that sometimes, people who are gone, they appear in our dreams to let us know that they still love us, that they're still there for us. John felt better knowing that his grandfather still loved him, even if he was gone.

_Sometimes, people we love…_

_People who leave us…_

_They come back to us in a dream…_

_Because they want us to know that they still care about us…_

_They still love us…_

_Sherlock… _

_Does this mean that you actually care?_

_Does this mean that you… actually loved me?_

_Do you still love me… wherever you are?_

_Why didn't I save you?_

_I could have, you know…_

_I told my grandfather that I'd become a soldier, that I'd save lives…_

_I saved so many…_

_But why couldn't I save you, Sherlock?_

John put his arms around his knees, over his chest. He rocked back and forth and laid his forehead to his kneecaps. He could feel tears soak into his pyjama bottoms.

In this moment, he needed someone. But he didn't want anyone to see him cry. Of course he was strong, on the outside. He was also pretty strong on the inside too. But there were moments when he couldn't hold it together, and right now, he was falling apart.

_Sherlock._

He choked a sob and shook. He told himself to stop, to go back to sleep. But he needed this. He needed this time to let it out of every pore. He could hear the rain pounding on the roof, it was still dark outside, but it was almost morning.

When he was too exhausted to cry anymore, he felt swollen and numb. Flattening himself out on the sheets, he looked at the ceiling and concentrated on the rain drops. His face was still wet but he felt everything dissolve again, the tears began to fade. John bit his lip and let his eyelids fall shut, trying to remember the way that Sherlock's hand felt in his own. The way their hands had fit together, perfect.

_They had been perfect._

John saw his therapist only a week after Sherlock's death. He couldn't remember why or how he had made the decision, but he didn't know who else to talk to. It had been eighteen months since held last entered that ordinary office. He remembered going there when he still had the nightmares about the war… So much had changed since then. The nightmares now involved Sherlock, Moriarty, fear and agony and death.

So much had changed, yet the therapist's office was the same. She still wore the same perfume, and wore her make-up the same way, there weren't any new wrinkles on her face or grey hairs on her head. The ceiling was still an ugly shade of green, there was still a coffee stain on the carpet. It was as if those eighteen months had never happened.

_But they had._

_John would never forget those eighteen months._

_The best eighteen months of his life._

The meeting wasn't long, there hadn't been much to say. After leaving the therapist, he decided against anymore visits. She asked him questions that he didn't want to answer, she made him think about things he hadn't thought of before… things that made the pain worse.

"The stuff that you wanted to say… but didn't say it"

"Yeah…"

"Say it now"

_Don't do this, Sherlock._

_I'm sorry about what I said before, I'm sorry._

_You're not a machine. You're so human. More human than me._

_You made me better._

_Don't be dead._

_I want you, I need you._

_Please..._

_I love yo-_

_So many things. _

_There was so much that John would have said._

_If he could…_

_Would he?_

"No… I'm sorry, I can't"

Just remembering that conversation with his therapist made him feel strange. He probably would have never said those things to him… especially the last bit… Those were not things that he could say to Sherlock, to anyone in fact. But mostly Sherlock… Sherlock wouldn't have understood, he laughed at sentiment.

John just didn't know what to do with himself anymore. Sherlock's fall was everywhere on the news. It was on television, the internet, and in newspapers on every street corner. John couldn't leave the flat without having to hide himself from the public eye. Reporters hounded him, asked him why he believed that Sherlock wasn't a fake. John could never explain. These people didn't know Sherlock, no one did… not even John. But John continued to defend him, he would always defend Sherlock. Nothing would convince him otherwise. Of course, everyone quoted him in the papers about his statements. They laughed at him, thought he was crazy, almost as crazy as Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't watch television or surf the internet without being bombarded by the news. After posting an update on his personal blog about Sherlock's death, he didn't log back in again. He doubt that he ever would. That part of his life was over now.

Of course, people tried to console him. Mrs. Hudson mourned, though she didn't let John see. He knew that she wouldn't want him to see her hurting, John was hurting so much more. John didn't expect Lestrade to speak to him, and John wouldn't blame him. There had already been so much damage to Lestrade's reputation, and John felt guilty that Lestrade was suspended from Scotland Yard. Mike Stamford sent his condolences, and Molly came by once. But Harry had been one of the last people to contact him.

_If you need to talk, or a place to stay, you know where to find me. -Harry_

John's eyes lingered on the text, he wouldn't delete it, but he wouldn't accept her offer. He doubted that he ever would. John had expected Mycroft to say something, but then thought that Mycroft would probably want some time to himself, being the proud, standoffish, introvert that he was. After all, it was his brother who had just died, and he would still have guilt from giving Moriarty all that damned information.

The moment that John got back home with Mrs. Hudson after the funeral, John went up to his room and packed a simple suitcase with his belongings. He thought about the funeral service. There hadn't been a big crowd, a couple friends and clients came, along with a couple reporters who had more questions for him. Mycroft was there, but he stayed at a distance. Molly stood with Mrs. Hudson and John during the service. John felt uncomfortable the whole time, he felt like everyone else's eyes were on him, expecting him to cry or yell or something. The minister even asked John, as Sherlock's best and only friend, if he wanted to say a few words before they lowered the casket. John shook his head in a very sharp and robotic way, wanting to run away from that place. Molly was watching John closely, he could feel her eyes on him more than everyone else. John looked down as they lowered the casket into the ground. He didn't want to see anything, didn't want to think about it. By the time that the grave was filled in with dirt, John walked away with Molly and Mrs. Hudson, they were the only ones who remained. John felt shaky as he stuffed clothes into his suitcase. He left the flat the way it was, most everything had belonged to Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. Before leaving, he went to every room and tried to commit it to memory in case he never felt like coming back.

As soon as he got to Sherlock's room, he paused. The door was closed, it felt domineering in a way… John cringed. There had always been a mysterious quality to Sherlock's room, of course John had seen it before, but Sherlock has a pretty private person when he wanted to be… John felt the doorknob under his finger tips, but eventually turned away to go downstairs. The thought of entering Sherlock's room had brought on a new collection of emotions and curiosities, it was best to leave it be.

It didn't take long for John to find a cheap flat on the other side of London. Mrs. Hudson never questioned him on his departure, she understood. When Mycroft found out about it, he promised to pay Mrs. Hudson for the full expense of 221B. The flat wouldn't change, everything would stay the same, nothing removed or replaced except for a few experiments and supplies that went into boxes. It became a sort of relic that John would have the freedom to come back to if he ever wanted to.

When John came for Mrs. Hudson to visit the cemetery one afternoon, she only gave a weak smile and locked the door before hailing a taxi. It had been a couple weeks since John's departure, but Mrs. Hudson didn't comment or ask questions about his temporary home. On the way to the cemetery, Mrs. Hudson asked the cabbie to stop so she could get some flowers at a local shop. The rest of the taxi-ride smelled of the thick flower scent. It made John feel sick, yet all he did was turn his face toward the window to avoid the strong odour. He hated the smell of flowers, especially roses. Flowers smelled like death. And he'd been to so many funerals in the past, his grandfather, his parents, his military friends, and now his best friend…

_Sherlock._

Mrs. Hudson didn't speak as she grasped John's hand. There was a new stone in the place where John had seen the gravediggers bury the casket during the funeral. The ground was just starting to recover, new grass was beginning to sprout from the churned earth. John and Mrs. Hudson stopped before the tombstone, the ground squished beneath their shoes from the recent rainfall. In fact, it looked as if another storm was on the way.

It was silent for a few moments, John felt her clutch onto his arm a little tighter, for support… or maybe reassurance. Then she let go to lean down over the stone, _SHERLOCK HOLMES_ was written in big font. Mrs. Hudson lay the flowers against the ground and stepped back to John's side.

"There's all of this stuff… All of the science equipment. I left it all in boxes, I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school... Would you…?"

John interrupted, feeling anger start to build up again, "I can't go back to the flat again. Not at the moment." She squeezed his arm again, sympathy. John took a deep breath, trying to clear his head, but the more he looked at the tombstone, the more anger he felt.

"I'm angry," he took another breath, looking down at the ground. "It's ok, John," she looked back at him, "There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel.

"All the marks on my table, and the noise. Firing guns at half-past one in the morning." John pictured it all in his mind, but he didn't want to hear it, "Yeah-".

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes," John closed his eyes, he wanted her to stop.

"And the fighting. Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on!"

John had enough, "Yeah, listen. I'm not actually that angry, okay?" Mrs. Hudson had tears in her eyes, he understood that she had to get her frustration out, it was a part of grieving.

"Okay, I'll leave you alone to, you know…" her voice broke, putting a finger to her lips she left his side and started walking back. John watched her leave, wanting to be alone, right here, right now.

John could feel the anger dissipate and his heart rate began to speed up, he thought of words he could say. Though it sounded insane to be talking to a dead man, "Um… Mmm, right, you… You told me once…" he cleared his throat, "… that you weren't a hero. Um… There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were…" he looked up at the name on the black stone, "The best man and the most human… human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, okay? So…there." He sighed, finally saying something that needed to be said. Because John really did believe in Sherlock. It hurt to think that Sherlock wouldn't believe that statement… That he killed himself because of… a lie. John's breathing started to quiver, his throat felt thick, there was more to say, so much more.

He walked towards the tombstone, laying the tips of his fingers against the cold rock, "I was…" it was hardly a whisper, but then he found his voice, "I was so alone… And I owe you so much," John stood away from the stone, his whole body felt shaky, unstable.

"Oh, please, there's just one more thing, right? One more thing."

_The only thing that John wanted..._

_Sherlock._

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead" his voice broke on the last word, "Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this." John could hardly continue, he felt his lungs stop working, he felt sick, scared, he felt the tears start to come.

John felt so hollow, he felt alone again. It was as if Sherlock hadn't existed, hadn't come into his life.

Only the painful truth was that Sherlock _did_ exist, and he brought John back into existence when they met. Sherlock brought him back to life, and now John felt weak and useless because he would never bring Sherlock back…

_He was gone._

_John was completely alone again._

_Only this time he was left un-whole, broken._

And after breaking down, he summoned all the strength he had left, and imagined his Drill Sargent, telling him to stand straight and be a man. The hollowness he felt after coming back from Afghanistan came back now, he was back to being the wounded solider. With a slight nod of his head, he turned and walked away. He didn't look back, he _wouldn't_ look back. He wouldn't want to come back here, ever. It wouldn't change anything.

After finding her beside a waiting cab, John helped Mrs. Hudson inside. Mrs. Hudson may have said a few things to John, but he didn't really pay attention. His mind was completely blank, he was just… numb.

_Sherlock._

_Don't be dead._


	3. Remote

Sherlock watched John walk away from his "grave". He couldn't help but notice that his posture was lacking, that even though John was showing a brave face and walking a military stride, Sherlock could tell that the act was not working. With each step farther from the cold black tombstone, John seemed to have a battle between his mind and his body in deciding how to walk away. All traces of tears were gone from his face, his expression was hard and made of stone. For once, Sherlock could neither deduce nor understand what John was feeling. His face had become… changed. It was something that Sherlock could not recognize.

After watching John catch up to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock shrunk further into the shadows of the spruce trees and wove his way around them to find his way back to his hidden home.

For the time being, Sherlock was staying in a small basement across the street from Molly's flat. The landlord, who had rented out the basement to Sherlock, had been paid extra and given a list of terms and conditions. This agreement allowed Sherlock's identity to be safe with the landlord for an allotted amount of time. The landlord was understanding, especially since Mycroft had told him the consequences if he ever decided to reveal Sherlock to anyone. These consequences were rather severe in their nature, and the landlord, Mr. Peters, was willing to accept this offer. Though he couldn't help but shrink away in fright whenever he happened to come across Sherlock in their hallway.

Of course, Mycroft and Molly had become quite helpful in hiding Sherlock's existence. While Mycroft worked out the legal issues and the information about Moriarty's web, Molly had worked out the the accommodations and resources that Sherlock needed while in hiding.

Everyday was busy with work. Sherlock had much to discuss with Mycroft while trying to work out a way to track down Moriarty's web. Free time or being "bored" was not an option anymore. Sherlock didn't have time to be bored, and to be truthful, his health began to greatly decline with the pressure he was putting on himself. He no longer had John to remind him of the time, or when to eat, when to sleep. Sherlock didn't have room in his head for petty things such as eating and sleeping. Though sometimes his body had made decisions for him. There were times where he would sit at his desk and feel his body slip into a slumber without warning. There were also times where the pain in his stomach from lack of nutrition had caused him to crumble on the floor , moaning from the intense pain.

Molly became his primary caretaker. She would come once a day to his basement room with food or new information regarding how John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were doing. It was the only break he would have from working on the web.

A little more than a month in, Sherlock had seemed needy and edgy. Molly had come with some coffee and a couple bagels. They sat together in silence as Molly watched Sherlock chew while reading a file from Mycroft. But all that he could think about was seeing John at the cemetery that afternoon...

"Sherlock," Molly said into the silence. She wasn't sure what exactly to say, but she had to say something. Sherlock didn't acknowledge her voice but she knew he could hear her. "John…" she didn't know how to continue, she didn't want to see Sherlock's face when she told him about John's progress.

As if sensing what Molly would say next, Sherlock looked up from his papers and stared into Molly's eyes. There was an eagerness and concern in his eyes that made her feel her heart fall in her chest. "John isn't doing so good."

Of course, this was obvious. John had been feeling awful ever since the day of the fall. But what Molly was trying to say was that John was taking a turn for the worse. Sherlock seemed to understand Molly, yet he didn't say anything in return. Rather, he swallowed what was in his mouth and took a long sip of his now-cold coffee.

"What I mean is…" Molly paused, taking a breath, " John isn't going back to the flat… Mrs. Hudson told me..."

Sherlock breathed out a sigh and closed his eyes. Molly fumbled with her fingers, chipping away the fading nail polish. What was there to say next? What did she expect Sherlock to do? It wasn't possible for Sherlock to go back, this secret was for John's safety and survival.

_John would never understand._

_But Sherlock would never understand why he had gone to such measures in order to ensure John's safety._

_And maybe someday, someday…_

_Sherlock would be able to come back._

_John was the only thing that mattered. _

Molly left soon after they're conversation, and Sherlock didn't respond to her quiet "See you tomorrow". As soon as Molly was up the stairs and out the door, Sherlock took the paper on his desk and tore each page into small pieces. He felt hot anger rush to the surface of his skin as he spilled the coffee on the wooden panels under his feet, crumpling down to the floor in the sticky mess.

_Sentiment._

_A chemical defect found in the losing side._

_Sherlock had lost._

_Moriarty may have died, Sherlock may have faked his death…_

_But Jim Moriarty was the man who beat Sherlock Holmes._

_Jim Moriarty succeeded in burning the heart out of him._

_It was something that he'd thought impossible..._

_Sherlock knew the effects of sentiment._

_He never wanted to care about anyone._

_It was a promise that he made to himself, as a child._

_Alone was what he had, alone protected him…_

_Until he met John Watson…_

_John Watson changed… everything._

_"Friends protect people"_

_Sherlock had to protect the only friend he had._

_Moriarty might be dead, Sherlock might be hiding,_

_But there were evils lurking in the shadows that Sherlock had to destroy._

_Danger wouldn't disappear that easily._

_There was more to Moriarty's plan._

_And if Sherlock didn't hurry…_

_Well…_

_Everything would be over, _

_And there would be no coming back._

Sherlock didn't cry. Sherlock never cried. The pain in his chest was something that tears could never express. Sherlock was angry, enraged by himself. He felt selfish, deceitful, cowardly. Instead of actually killing himself to save his friends, he decided to escape death and let the pain of loss and loneliness linger in him while they believed he was gone forever. For the first time in years, drugs really seemed like a good idea. Anything to numb the pain he was feeling.

But just as soon as that thought came to him, his head snapped up from his cupped hands and he picked away through the piles of torn paper. He wasn't sure if he was hearing things again, but he thought that he had heard a text alert.

When he finally found his phone among the scraps of paper, he looked down to see what the message was. His heart rate sped up when he saw the name on the display screen: John Watson.

_Please come back. JW_

Sherlock stared at the screen for what felt like an hour. He didn't know what to do. More than anything, he wanted to reply, to tell John he was on his way. But he knew that wouldn't happen, maybe not for a long time, maybe not _ever_. Sherlock had always replied to everyone's texts. The only exception had been Irene Adler, and he knew that he would probably never hear from her again.

This had been the first text that John had sent to Sherlock since the fall. And though it was a month ago, Sherlock didn't understand why John had started to text him now. It only made the separation feel more painful.

Exasperated, Sherlock threw his phone back onto the table and started to organize the bits of torn paper. For the next few hours he successfully taped the most important papers back together, while the more damaged or less important papers went in the bin.

For the first time in two weeks, Sherlock actually walked over to his bed and tried to sleep. It was only seven in the evening, but Sherlock never really paid attention to the conventional hours to go to sleep. But even though he was prepared to sleep this time, all he could think about was John. He put his hand under the pillow to touch his cell phone, knowing that only hours ago, John had sent him a text. It was the first connection that he had had with John since his fall.

Though Sherlock had been restless for many hours, tossing and turning, he eventually fell asleep. But it was not peaceful. His dreams drifted from seeing John, to seeing snippers in the shadows watching Sherlock from afar. A bullet was flying towards John's chest when Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat. Sherlock panted and sat up in his bed. The blankets were crumpled in a mess around his legs and there was a dim light coming from the small window near the ceiling. Sherlock felt under his pillow for the phone and felt his heart stop when he discovered that the phone was gone.

Immediately, Sherlock stood from the bed, pressing the button on his lamp to light up the room. The sudden brightness made Sherlock blink and squint his eyes, trying to adjust to the light while crouching to the floor in search of the phone. A new wave of panic swept over him as he looked around helplessly.

_He didn't see the phone anywhere._

There was a muffled buzz and it caught his attention. It was the familiar buzz of his text alert, and in seconds he found the source of the noise. The phone has been under his crumpled sheets. As eager as he was the day before, he read the text.

_I can't sleep. JW_

"Me too," Sherlock said hoarsely, his voice heavy with sleep.

Putting his phone on the nightstand, he walked to the bathroom. It was a shabby little bathroom, very small and cramped, but good enough. Sherlock turned on the cold water from the tap and washed his face. He succeeded in washing alway the sweat and tiredness. Next, Sherlock went back to his room to sit at the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

He looked down the device, unsure what to do. Slowly, he dialled a familiar number and waited for someone to pick up the phone on the other end.

"Hello?" said a weak and sleepy voice from the receiver, "Sherlock? Why are you calling?"

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to respond, "Sorry Molly. But I just… need someone right now".

Molly didn't respond very fast, he had obviously just woken her up. "I'll be there," she said and then hung up.

Sherlock put the phone in his pocket and walked to the small kitchen area outside of his bedroom. He looked down at the kettle, trying to remember how to make coffee. It had been awhile since he had made it for himself, let alone someone else. It was a little less than a year ago that he had made coffee for John while they were on the Baskerville case. But John was usually the one to make hot beverages.

_John._

A knock at the door brought Sherlock out of his stupor as he gave up with the kettle and went to answer the door. Molly stood there, sleepy and dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. Sherlock didn't comment on her appearance, he let her in and she sat him down on his little couch. While Molly worked on the coffee, Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and stared at the two texts that he had received from John.

_Please come back. JW_

_I can't sleep. JW_

Molly came to sit beside him and handed him a mug of coffee. Black with two sugars. Sherlock felt a little better after taking a few sips, he felt the fright from his dreams slip away, though they weren't forgotten. Molly offered him a biscuit and they sat in silence. She didn't complain about how early it was in the morning, or how Sherlock didn't say "thank you". She knew that Sherlock was not doing well, she could see it in his eyes, but she'd never comment about it. Molly wanted to help him, she really cared about Sherlock, he needed her to help fake his death and now he needed her for support.

"Molly," Sherlock said in a small voice, very unlike him, "I need him."


	4. Abolished Life

When he got back to his new flat after going to the cemetery, he went straight to bed. He didn't even bother changing his clothes or taking off his shoes.

_Sherlock._

_If you can hear me…_

_Please come back._

_I need you._

John scrolled through his contacts, hardly thinking about what he was doing. He typed in a message and pressed "send". Right after the message went through, he wanted to take it back. He wanted to erase the message, it was a mistake.

_He had just texted a dead man's cell phone._

_What was he thinking?_

John cleared his mind, trying not to think of the events that had happened that afternoon at the cemetery. John had poured out his heart and soul to a tombstone, and he supposed, the body that lay six feet below the ground. He still felt hollow, sensitive, not himself. He reached for the glass of lukewarm water on his nightstand and drank it's remains. He felt very panicky and restless. Standing up, he went to the window and looked at the cars passing by outside. Everything seemed to be reminding him of Sherlock.

_The air he breathed._

_The sheets on his bed._

_The shoes on his feet._

_The grimy window._

_Everything was Sherlock._

_Everything._

John moved back towards his bed, just as he felt sleep drift over his body and consume him, John's hand grazed the cell phone in his pocket. He remembered the last words that Sherlock had said, "Goodbye, John". Then he fell asleep.

_Moriarty laughed in John's nightmares. The dreams had shifted from John finding Sherlock's body, to suddenly seeing Moriarty stand over them, smiling down at John. John held Sherlock's body against his own. He could feel the diminishing warmth of Sherlock's lifeless body against his, he could feel the blood from Sherlock's head soak into the fabric of his jacket. He could taste Sherlock's blood when he put his lips to his hair. Moriarty looked at John and laughed, the look in his eyes was haunting. _

John woke up with a gasp and panted as he reached for the light switch and picked up his phone.

He didn't know what to expect. A couple minutes after sending that text last night, he realized that he had sent it to a dead man. So why was he checking the phone again now, as if he'd ever get a reply?

Of course, there wasn't a reply. John wasn't surprised, yet he was still disappointed. Sherlock had answered every single text that John had ever sent to him. Sherlock loved having the last say in things. Sherlock was the one to end conversations.

_Sherlock would outlive God having the last word._

But this time was different. This time… Sherlock was dead, and he wouldn't have the last word. John looked out the window and could see a dim light coming on the horizon. The sun was rising, he had woken before his alarm, but there was no way he could fall back to sleep no matter how tired he still was.

His phone felt heavy in his hand. Without a second thought he typed:

_I can't sleep. JW_

This time, he stared at his phone and waited for a reply, almost positive that he'd get one this time. But there was nothing. John felt himself break down, he put his head in his hands and cried.

Everyday became routine again, things were back to normal yet everything was different. The next couple of months went by quickly. He went to work at the doctor's office everyday. Sarah greeted him with sympathy and a cup of coffee each morning.

Since John was on his own now, he worked extra hours so he could spend less time at the cheap flat. Every evening he would go straight to bed, sleeping through the night and then waking up at his alarm clock every morning. He had occasional nightmares, but they weren't as bad as soon as John started living life. When John was having a particularly difficult day or came across a painful memory, the nightmares came back with full force. But sometimes he felt a little better. His cellphone was always by his side. Just incase there was ever a reply.

John was at the doctor's office, caring for a little girl who had a fever, when Sarah interrupted him to say he had a telephone call. John finished up a prescription and went to receive the call before getting his next patient.

"Hello, Dr. Watson speaking"

"John? It's me… Harry"

John was a little surprised to receive a call from Harry while at work, she would probably want to know how he was doing...

"Hey, Harry. How are you?"

"I'm fine… Though I was calling to hear how you were doing"

John blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, he really didn't want to talk to his sister right now, "Um… I'm okay. Not great, but good enough I guess."

"Oh…" Harry had never been good at making conversation, "Well, I was wondering if you received any of my texts and voicemails? Why have you been ignoring me, is it because of the alcohol? I'm working on tha-"

John interrupted her, "Harry, I'm at work. Can't this wait for later? There isn't much I can tell you. I'm trying to move on, okay?" Frustration was evident in his voice, but he tried not to sound too angry in front of weary patients.

"But, you're _not_ going to answer my calls later. You _never _would. I know you. The only reason that you picked up the phone at work was because you thought it wouldn't be me. If you knew, you wouldn't have accepted the call!"

"Okay, I don't have time for this Harry. I'm sorry, but I need to be alone. It isn't about you, just give me some space." Before she could retaliate, he hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Sarah looked at him with concern but didn't bother to ask.

John walked back to his office where a little old woman sat patiently waiting. He taking a deep breath and clearing his head, he looked down at his clipboard for the next patient's name. "Sorry for keeping you, Mrs. Tomas. What seems to be the problem?"


	5. The Weakest State

Mycroft came over to visit Sherlock that afternoon. Under his arm was another set of files that would replace the ones that Sherlock had destroyed. Neither said anything as Mycroft placed the files on Sherlock's already messy desk. The floor by the desk was still a little sticky from spilling the coffee the night before. Mycroft looked over Sherlock's new living quarters and couldn't help missing John and 's presence in Sherlock's life. He'd forgotten how well they had cared for him back at Baker Street, his habits had improved around them. Sherlock had always been very disorganized, but when John moved in only a couple years before, their flat seemed to be presentable. But now in his absence, Sherlock was on his own again and things started to go back to the way they were after Sherlock moved out during his youth.

Mycroft felt that there must be something that he could fix with Sherlock. But Sherlock never seemed to give him a chance. Mycroft spoke with their mother often, sometimes she worried about Sherlock. Of course she had every right to, after Sherlock had run away from home and set off on his own. Mycroft didn't want to remember the state it left their mother in…

"These files, Sherlock, are very important in tracking the web. I expect you to treat these files with utmost caution and care. This information is difficult to come by, and you're quite lucky that I had a second set."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he fiddled with his hair. He sat, slouched, on the couch with little interest in what Mycroft was saying. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock cared about these files, finishing the web meant everything to him. Sherlock was back to being the arrogant teenager, it brought a new wave of regret over Mycroft as he strolled back to the doorway. Mycroft looked back at his brother, knowing that there was something Sherlock was trying to say.

Sherlock sat in silence, twirling one of his curls between two fingers and biting his lip. "John texted me…" Mycroft looked at Sherlock with shock, "Twice…" Sherlock finished, looking up at Mycroft with sadness written in the way his eyebrows knit with the creases of his forehead. Mycroft analyzed Sherlock again. In less than seconds, Sherlock had degraded from an arrogant teenager to an innocent and worried child. Mycroft didn't know what to say, but John's texts would make things worse. Mycroft made note that he'd have to tell John's therapist to stop him from the texting. _If _John ever went back to his therapist...  
"The sooner you finish the web, the sooner you get to see John again," Mycroft said coldly as he walked out the door. He felt concerned for his brother, he didn't want to have to say that to Sherlock, but Mycroft had as much trouble as Sherlock when dealing with emotions and consoling others. Sherlock would understand, though it wouldn't make him feel any better.

Molly came back to Sherlock's basement apartment late in the evening. She noticed that the coffee spill that was by his desk that morning was now cleared away, though a little sloppily. The pile of torn papers were all in the bin while a set of perfect files sat in an organized pile on the desk surface. Sherlock had tried to clean up, but was not very successful.

Lying on the small sofa was Sherlock, his long, lean, body was bent in order to accommodate the smallness of the furniture. His eyes were closed, he looked like he was sleeping, and in his hand was his cell phone.

Molly went to the sink to get a wet washcloth. She came back to the floor by the desk and cleaned away any of the remaining residue of coffee that Sherlock had left after trying to clean the mess himself. When Molly stood up from the floor and walked back to the sink, Sherlock spoke, "How is he?"

Molly thought back to her quick meetings with John. She'd found him at coffee shops, grocery stores, anywhere he frequented. She had noticed that he looked very tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He also didn't seem to want to speak much, he seemed desperate to leave her and continue his chores or activities. Molly really worried for both John and Sherlock. She didn't know what to say when Sherlock asked how he was.

"Um… He's fine, I guess. Not that great. It's difficult to find him around these days. He's working a lot more now."

Sherlock didn't say anything. Instead he looked down at the two texts that John had sent him. He wondered if he'd ever get a third one. Thinking back to Mycroft's visit earlier, Sherlock wished that he hadn't mentioned the texts. That was personal, something John wouldn't have wanted Mycroft to know about. Sherlock felt like throwing the phone, but knowing that it was his only connection to John, he held onto it tightly instead.

Molly came over to Sherlock's side. She seemed unsure of what to do. "I'll continue keeping an eye on him if you like."

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "Yes… I'd like that."


	6. The Prodigal

Seeing Molly around had helped a little, even if they didn't talk too much. John just liked to see someone familiar, it was comforting to know that Molly had wanted to check up on him from time to time. He felt a little guilty for wanting to avoid her, while he loved seeing her, sometimes he'd rather be alone. It was a complicated emotion… He wanted to be alone, but he wanted company. Over the past four months, nothing had really changed. Though he was feeling a little better, there was a strange uneasy feeling in his gut as if he needed to resolve something.

_He needed to prove that Sherlock wasn't a fake._

_But…_

_How?_

As John walked down the busy streets to his rented room, he couldn't help thinking about the texts that he had sent to Sherlock's phone a few months ago. Sending those messages wouldn't help John's grieving process in any way, in fact, his therapist would probably take his phone away from him if she found out. But he hadn't sent any texts since, the temptation was there but he never gave in. As John crossed the street and felt small rain drops begin to fall on his face, he decided against sending any more texts. It was for his own good.

It was getting dark when John got through the door and slipped his jacket from his shoulders. His room had been cleaned by a maid during the day, though it wasn't necessary since John kept his belongings organized. His life with Sherlock had made him lazy with his military habits. But now that Sherlock wasn't here anymore, John felt himself transition back to strict order and behaviour.

Sherlock had been terribly messy when John arrived at the flat, but it seemed that after getting comfortable with each other, Sherlock became a **l**ittle more organized and John became a little less organized. Neither of them really changed their habits, but living together had definitely had an impact. John couldn't help thinking back to those first few weeks together, he smiled. Sherlock had truly tried to make John comfortable, he seemed to be comfortable with sharing the flat since he knew the kind of person John was. Sometimes, Sherlock's experiments, mood swings, and overall laziness had caused John to become angry. John would curse and rant to Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed to understand, no matter how many insults John shot. Sherlock usually shouted insults back, always had the last word, even if he was wrong.

John fell out of his memories when there came a knock at his door. He walked back to the door of his flat and opened it to a small man, the apartment owner.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," he said in his deep and rough voice, "I'm the owner of this building, and i was just wondering when you plan to leave?"

"Is there something wrong?" John asked politely yet surprised.

"No… nothing really wrong. But we don't have many rooms, so permanent guests are not really something we need. This building is reserved for those who are in between homes. I hope you understand," the man said.

"Of course…" John didn't want to leave, but he figured he would have to go back to the flat a some point. This was probably the best opportunity to return to Baker Street. "I'll leave tomorrow then, I don't want to get in the way," John finished with a small smile.

After thanking John, the owner walked back down the hall to the stairwell. John closed the door and looked at his small collection of belongings. He hadn't brought much with him in the first place, so this would make it easier to pack. It was a one room flat with a bed, table and small kitchen area. It was a cosy place, but it was probably best to move on. John didn't bother changing out of his clothes as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes.

The sound of his cellphone interrupted the silence, and for a moment, John's heart leaped in his chest and began to pump vigourously.

_It's not a reply._

_It's not a reply._

_Sherlock isn't texting me._

_He's dead._

_Sherlock isn't texting me._

_Possibility versus Reality._

_The possibility that it was a text from Sherlock, that Sherlock had defied death._

_The reality that he was actually dead, that this was a text from someone else in John's small circle of friends._

With a shaky hand, he lifted the phone. He wanted to see a text from Sherlock, but he also didn't want that. It was an inner battle over being optimistic about the possibility, or being realistic. Reality almost always won, though, the only moments that John could recall of having optimism win was the day he was shot in the shoulder and survived, and the day that Mike Stamford told him that he knew someone looking for a flatmate.

Abandoning his cruel memories, he unlocked the phone to see the message. Relief and despair washed over him, it was not a text from Sherlock Holmes.

_John, please answer my texts! Remember what I told you on the phone, you can always come live at my flat if you have nowhere else to go. - Harry_

John looked at the text, it was the second one that Harry had sent since Sherlock…

John didn't enjoy his sister's company, her drinking had gotten out of hand over the past few years, getting worse after their last remaining parent died a few years ago. Harry had told John that he could stay with her when he came back from Afghanistan, but John ignored her help. One reason was Harry's recent divorce, the other reason was the worsening of Harry's drinking habits. Living with the eccentric and dangerous Sherlock Holmes had seemed like the better offer.

At this point in time, John was being kicked out of his new temporary flat and he had nowhere else to go unless he wanted to go back to Baker Street. Throwing the phone onto his nightstand, he decided that he'd figure it out in the morning.

The room was a little cool, so John turned out the light and clutched his blankets up to his face. The warmth was comforting, his hair was still a little damp from the rain outside, but John decided he'd take a shower in the morning before leaving.

It didn't take long for John to fall asleep. He was exhausted from a busy day, and also from the nightmare that he had had the night before. He didn't want to think of the way that his nightmares had evolved when involving Sherlock, it had horrified him. When the light of the sunrise came through the window, John awoke well-rested. His sleep was peaceful and undisturbed by dreams of any sort.

It didn't take long for John to pack, wash up and then leave the room. He went to the owner's office to pay and bring back his key, and then hailed a taxi at the street corner. As his taxi came to the familiar road on Baker Street, John felt a dread wash over him. He had decided to give Baker Street a try, considering how he didn't want to go to his sister. But he really hadn't been looking forward to coming back to his flat this early either. Everything was still too fresh in John's mind to be able to live here again. It had almost been half a year.

As he lay his palm on the cold door-handle of the cab, John felt anxiety consume him, he needed air, he needed to be away from here. He was just starting to feel something tear inside him when he blurted out Harry's address to the cabbie, promising to pay extra.

The driver couldn't take him away from 221B fast enough. Behind his strong exterior, something had gone wrong. He felt a sudden faintness come over him, he lay his head back and fought back a headache. It reminded him so much of when he had fallen on the concrete at St. Barts, when the cyclist had knocked him over on his way to his dead friend's side.

His memories were so vivid that he had to open his eyes, concentrating on the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he brushed it away with the sleeve of his jacket.

Soon he'd be at Harry's flat, he'd come to her door like a prodigal. But the thought of Harry no longer dismayed him, in fact it almost relaxed him.

The drive had been a little longer than John would have liked. Harry had a small home just outside of London, it was a nice area, less crowded, and it was easier to see the sky without the tall glass buildings blocking the view. John hurriedly paid the driver and took his things. As he stepped out of the cab, he felt the fresh air wash over him.

Harry opened the door to find her little brother before her, suitcase beside him, his face ashen and dazed.

"John…" She looked at the cab speeding away behind him and gave him a weak smile. John could feel the worry radiating off of her. He realized that he probably looked terrible from the long drive. "Come in, before the rain starts again," she opened the doorway wide and stepped aside to let him enter. Taking his bag of luggage, she showed him into her sitting room and offered him tea.

Taking a seat on her sofa, he eased the jacket from his shoulders and studied his surroundings. The coffee table had wet rings at the end closest to Harry's usual seat, this meant that she had had a drink recently. Judging by the faint smell of beer on her breath, he knew that she had been drinking right before his arrival.

_That's not good…_

_Hadn't she been working on her drinking?_

Coming back into the sitting room, Harry offered John his tea and sat in her chair across from him. She took a sip from her own tea, but John could tell that she was only drinking it for his sake. He had known for years that she preferred alcohol over tea any day, in fact, Harry hated tea. John took a long sip as he watched her expression change from indifference to displeasure. The tea itself wasn't very good though, to be fair. It was the kind of bland tea Harry only bought for company, not for her own use. Putting down her teacup, Harry crossed her legs and looked back at John.

"So, John, what brought you here after all this time?" She tried to seem relaxed and steady, but she couldn't hide her discomfort with John's sudden appearance and having to drink tea in order to impress him.

John put his own teacup down on the table after another sip and smiled sheepishly back at his sister. "Well, I figured that I'd take you up on your offer. After all, I haven't seen you since Christmas holidays, and I've missed you." John knew that most of this was a lie, but he'd become better at lying since his work with Sherlock, and Harry didn't see him often, so he figured he was safe with this statement.

"You should have rung me up, I would have prepared your room sooner and served you a meal. Since when have you been this spontaneous?" Harry spoke lightly, trying to lighten the mood, but after realizing her words, she swallowed and continued to say, "But I'm happy that you've finally come, I've missed you too, and since my therapy, my drinking has gotten much better."

John raised a eyebrow at her in disbelief and she sighed. "Look…" she spoke as she moved to her little kitchen, "I've started drinking non-alcoholic beer! It doesn't taste the same, but it's close enough without giving me a damned-hangover." She brought a beer can to him and he read the label, definitely non-alcoholic.

_That must of been what she was drinking before he arrived. _

"I know you don't like tea, Harry," John grinned up at her as she took the can back. He could see the relief in her face as her shoulders relaxed and she grabbed her full teacup. "Thank God," she laughed as she poured her tea in the sink, picking up a clean glass for her beer.

John took another sip of his tea as she came back to her seat, taking a sip of her non-alcoholic beer before putting it on the table. Condensation rolled down the glass and created a new ring on the wooden surface, just like the other rings on the table.

"Anyways, Johnny, you're welcome to stay as long as you like. Mrs. Hudson would likely want to know of your whereabouts, she told me that she was worried about you. But she definitely wouldn't rush you back to the flat, the rent is sorted and she won't remove anything without your say in the matter." John nodded, taking a final sip of his tea and sitting back. Normally, he would have called Harry out about saying "Johnny", he hated that nickname. But for today, he'd let it go.

"Thank you... for everything."

"Don't thank me! You've done so much for me over the years and I'll never be able to pay you back for all the trouble I've caused. I just want you to relax and be happy now. You deserve to relax, so don't worry about the rent here, or being a bother to me. I'm your sister, let me take care of you!" She put an arm on his shoulder in a comforting gesture and he smiled back reassuringly.

"There, now. Lets get you unpacked and settled," Harry stood up and rolled his luggage into the hall towards the stairs. John took a deep breath and followed.


	7. Old Resentments

Sherlock was reading, curled up on his sofa, when Mycroft knocked on the shabby basement door. After calling for Mycroft to enter, Sherlock put down the book to make a few notes on a notepad. His brother waltzed into the room, umbrella in hand as he came to stand before Sherlock. His foot patted a slow rhythm on the worn carpet.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock looked up at him, biting his lip to keep him from snapping at his big brother. Mycroft knew that Sherlock hated it when he patted his foot on the ground. It was a habit that Mycroft had developed in his youth when bossing around his younger brother. Sherlock despised him for opening old wounds and reminding him of the days in which Mycroft had total control over him… but come to think of it, nothing much had changed. After all, the only reason he was staying secret was because Mycroft had forced him to. Otherwise, Sherlock would be seeking the assassins on his own.

"What is it, Mycroft," Sherlock asked with a moan. He glared at the intruder with frustration. Mycroft might have smiled down at Sherlock's discomfort on a different day in a different time, but he didn't come visit without a serious matter in mind.

Mycroft broke his gaze and eyed his umbrella, leaning down on the handle. "We've tracked down a few minor employees in an abandoned warehouse just east outside London. My men will notify me if they find any new information on the three assassins, but for now we are trying to take down the mass amount of weaker employees…" Mycroft shifted his posture and scratched at his chin, "We're keeping surveillance concentrated on the warehouse for now, with a few secret agents hiding amongst Moriarty's employees."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, knowing that there was a better reason as to why Mycroft had come. After all, the lazy git wouldn't leave the comfort of his office or the Diogenes club for a matter like this. "What else has developed?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft cleared his throat and attempted a small knowing smile, it was completely fake and out of character, "In other news, we succeeded in moving John out of his temporary room, he's living with his sister now."

Sherlock looked away with indifference on his face, but beneath that mask, he wasn't sure if he should feel upset or relieved. Relief seemed like the better option, since John's safety was essential to this mission. One of Mycroft's agents had moved into a place near Harry's house in order to keep an eye on John in his new destination. Mycroft took a small folded envelop out of his breast pocket and laid it on the cushion beside Sherlock. "This envelop contains the necessary information for you to find the first assassin. Lestrade's assassin, in case you were interested. It would be best to remove this one before he does any more damage to Scotland Yard's reputation. As you know, Lestrade is suspended right now, since the trouble you caused. It's already very unlikely that he will still be Detective Inspector, or even get his job back, for that matter…" Sherlock picked up the envelop, avoiding Mycroft's glare. "But I will do anything and everything in my power to get Lestrade back in his office. We both know that none of this was his fault."

Sherlock felt a wave of anger rush through him as he bit back "Lestrade wanted me to work for him, and I did. He _knew_ what he was getting into, letting me go to the crime scenes. And we both know that _you_ don't have a clear conscience either, Mycroft!"

Mycroft said no more, he swallowed the thick lump in his throat as he walked back to the doorway. "I'm doing everything I can, Sherlock. I don't like playing these games, but it seems that I'm still the one who has to put all the toys away at the end of the day." Without another word, Mycroft closed the door behind him as his steps faded away.

Sherlock was alone again, with his thoughts, with his resentments, with his bitterness. Suddenly, the room was much colder, it crawled up his spine as he curled up on the sofa. It had been six months since his faked suicide, and he still couldn't get the hang of this lifestyle. He wasn't a dependant person, he never was, but John had become his oxygen.

_Imagine that... _

_John had become an element, _

_A part of Sherlock. _

_Essential._

Exhaling a heavy breath, Sherlock thought that he could almost see the expelled carbon dioxide, as if it was mid-winter. His dressing gown slipped from his shoulder, revealing the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Finally standing from the sofa, Sherlock marched to his little bedroom and closed the door behind him. Basements were always cold, and being November, or course the temperature had started to drop. But the cold that Sherlock felt seemed to be rooted in the centre of his chest.

He climbed onto his mattress, under the sheets as he shivered and curled into a fetal position. The shivering didn't go away, it felt as if his bed, the floor, or even the earth was shaking with Sherlock's resentment. Everything felt unsteady, it reminded him of the years he took drugs. He squeezed his eyes shut against the overwhelming sensations running through his body, coursing through his veins.

Then, with a sudden jolt, he sat up on the mattress, his sheets tangled around him and a thin layer of sweat over his skin. He tore off his dressing gown and glided his finger tips against the delicate skin on the inside of his arms. The muscles seemed to itch, the scars from needles were still visible years later. Sherlock touched the nail of his right index finger to a particularly ugly and prominent scar. That had been his sweet spot during his youth. Every injection had given him the most satisfaction when he found that vein. Sherlock bit his lower lip, smirking at the thought of the rush through his veins, the wonders it did to his brain. Of course, Sherlock hadn't always been a Consulting Detective, but even as a young boy, his talents were of great value. He could hardly remember when or how he got his first needle, he deleted that memory a long time ago. But that itch was coming back, and if Sherlock didn't get his fix soon… he didn't know what he might do. He shook at the thought of the possibilities.

Those scars had remained for a reason, and right now, the only reason could be that those wounds had wanted to be re-opened. They were _meant _to be re-opened. Mycroft shouldn't know, neither should Molly. This was private, personal, if anything, it would assist Sherlock in finding the assassin.

Without getting dressed, Sherlock threw his jacket on. It was a different jacket, not long and flowing like his other one. He couldn't be recognized, and he had the perfect supplies to help him hide his identity in public.

It was already dark out, he knew where to find the right people, he knew London better than he knew his mother's house. His disguise was ready, the stubble growing on his face and the darkness under his eyes would help hide his identity while the different clothes did the rest.

Sherlock creeped out of the basement flat, making his way down the dark and busy street. The itch in his veins had subsided for now, but soon he would have release.


	8. Mary Morstan

John woke up well-rested each day, he'd had very few dreams about Moriarty or Sherlock during his first month at Harry's. The nightmares weren't often, but when they did come, they were disastrous and horrific. Life with Harry seemed better than he expected it to be. It was actually… pleasant. Of course, guilt and fear still suppressed him, but he let those feelings linger under a think layer of indifference. It had been a technique he learned in the military, something to help them to do their jobs without getting caught up in sentiment and worry. It helped get the job done, and even though John was good at suppressing his feelings, the morality in his soul made him a little softer than other's working in the army.

Harry's house was quiet, she was already out at work. Sitting up in bed, John stretched his sore shoulder, the bullet wound still throbbed now and then. He picked out clothes from a neat pile and proceeded to shuffle toward the shower.

Everyday was the same, very little action and excitement. Yet at the end of each day, it still surprised John with the way time seemed to fly. Nothing had changed, John familiarized himself with his new surroundings, and felt his limp begin to appear again. But John hadn't noticed the return of his limp until Harry commented on it once, and soon after that conversation, she brought him a new cane to use.

John hated the cane. It was such a bother to carry around. Of course it made walking easier and less painful, but John couldn't help feeling like an old man. He even began to notice a few grey hairs mixing with his ashy blond hair.

After washing up and limping out of the house, he locked the door and started walking down the street. As he turned out of Harry's driveway, he noticed a woman from the house beside. She was working on her garden, bent down beside a rose bush.

John was going to ignore her and continue walking when he heard his name being called out, "John! John Watson!", turning toward the sound, John realized it was the woman. She was standing now, smiling at him as if she'd known him for years. John panicked for a moment, wondering if he had dated her in the past.

"Hello!" he called back, limping toward her property and leaning on his cane. The woman met him half way, offering a hand in greeting. "I'm Mary Morstan. Harry told me that her brother is staying at her place, you must be him!" After a warm handshake, she dropped her hands to her sides, "She doesn't have male visitors, so I hope you are indeed the brother she was talking about".

John smiled back, he felt much better knowing that she wasn't someone he used to date. There had been so many in the past that John didn't remember half of them anymore. "Yes, I'm John Watson. Just staying over for awhile, some time away from home can be good. It's been nice with Harry, we're getting on much better now."

"That's great! I'm glad that she isn't alone anymore. Ever since the divorce, Harry hasn't been very sociable. But when you came by, she was so happy. She comes over to my place for a coffee now and then, you're welcome to come by when you like," She fiddled with her garden gloves, nervous.

Mary's nervousness spread to John. He felt his face warm up and he licked his lips. He realized that Mary had beautiful eyes, and the way that she fiddled with the gloves seemed really adorable, almost child-like.

"I'd like that," he replied, looking back at her, capturing her gaze. John started to feel tension grow, so he cleared his throat, "So, planting bulbs before the frost comes?" he jerked his head toward the garden.

Mary looked back at the garden, pushing a bit of golden hair out of her face.

_She was really pretty…_

"Yes, it's a little late in the year, but it was better to get it done today. It's my day off, I go back to work tomorrow."

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a tutor at the primary school a couple blocks from here."

"That's nice, you like working with children?"

"Yes, I've always worked well with children, and I enjoy helping them learn. What do you do?"

"I'm a doctor," John replied, shifting his feet and standing a little straighter. Mary bit her lip, "Would you like to come inside for a coffee. It's a little chilly out. We wouldn't want to catch a cold. Besides, I don't have anymore gardening to do for today".

John licked his lips again, "Sure, just don't mind me. My bloody leg has been acting up lately."

With that, John followed Mary into the warmth of her little home. It was petite and gentle in it's appearance, much like Mary's persona.

_He was in Mary's house. _

_He was in the house of a beautiful and charming woman._

His heart fluttered, and as they talked, he felt like this could be a wonderful start to a friendship- relationship… _something_. Little did John know what this would become.

Something about Mary Morstan seemed right, perfect even. Soon, John was spending evenings at Mary's, sometimes Harry came along too. Though as Mary and John's relationship began to deepen, Harry seemed to find an excuse to leave them alone. She'd wink at John with a sneaky smile and a whisper of "She's a keeper". John realized that this relationship with Mary was what he needed right now, he felt complete again. His limp remained, but he thought little of it. Mary had become a new chapter of his life.

Without really making it official, John found that Mary and him were already a couple. They went on walks together, hand in hand. Mary told John all about her job, her hobbies, her dreams and ambitions. John told Mary about Afghanistan and working at the clinic, but he never once mentioned Sherlock or his life at 221B Baker Street or Moriarty. He would have liked to think that he'd forgotten that part of his life, running around London with Sherlock Holmes, his best friend. Solving crimes and saving lives, saving Sherlock's life many times. All of these memories called out to John, it made him feel like a liar, as if he was hiding the biggest part of his life, his whole existence even. He hadn't wanted to hide that, but it was painful to talk about, think about. It was better if Mary didn't know...

One evening, just days into December, John and Mary were sitting together on her love-seat. They were holding hands, Mary leaned against John as they watched television. A murder mystery program was on, Mary loved those. John was a little uncomfortable with those shows, but he never said anything.

_He loved Mary so much._

But tonight, in particular, he felt a little edgy and frustrated. The murder case on the program was about a cabbie who killed the people he drove. A fresh memory of "A Study in Pink" came to mind. John could almost feel his fingers typing about the case on his blog.

_Mary didn't know about the blog. _

_Mary didn't know about Sherlo-_

_Shut up!_

John needed a detraction, he needed to get away from the memories. He could almost hear the gunshot as it flew into the cabbie's chest, missing Sherlock's body by a few inches. He could still hear the loud echo of his voice as he called out to Sherlock from a parallel window in the building beside, watching a man he hardly knew hold the little pill up to the light, ready to risk his life, to take a chance. John could almost feel the rush of adrenaline from running through the London streets with Sherlock, catching up to the cab… he hadn't needed his cane that night. He could almost remember the second that he lay eyes on Sherlock Holmes in the lab at St. Barts hospital, those strange eyes of his…

_Like Mary's eyes. _

_But more intense. _

_Wait…_

_What colour were Sherlock's eyes?_

_Blue?_

_Green?_

_Grey?_

_But… Mary's eyes were just green… _

"John?" he heard faintly beside him, turning his head, he looked into Mary's eyes.

_Green. _

_Like Sherlo- Shut up!_

"Mhmm?" John replied, biting his lip as he felt her breath fall on his face. He looked down at her lips. Her full lips. Untainted by any lipstick. God, he hated the mess that lipstick made. He'd dated women who wore too much lipstick, he hated kissing lips that were covered in that sticky red colour. The smudges that lipstick left on his face were unbearable. But it was nice that Mary didn't worry about lipstick. She looked beautiful without it.

_Those full lips_… _Like Sherlo-_

_No!_

_Mary._

_Not Sherlock, this was Mary._

John loved Mary. John wanted Mary to love him back. He wanted to kiss her, hold her.

_Why was Sherlock still looking at him with those eyes-_ No!

_THIS IS MARY. _

_NOT SHERLOCK._

"John?" Mary touched his face, her palm was soft and warm against his cheek.

_Yes, this was Mary. Soft, beautiful Mary Morstan. _

Before another thought, John closed the distance between them, he kissed Mary, felt her soft lips against his. God, John had missed this. He'd missed kissing.

_He missed Sherlock._

_No._

_This wasn't about Sherlock._

John deepened the kiss, holding Mary in his arms. She didn't pull away, she wanted this too. But something was wrong about this. Mary didn't deserve John. After all, the only reason that John had kissed her was the abandon his thoughts of Sherlock.

_What if he kissed Sherlock?_

_No._

_He'd never kiss Sherlock._

_Sherlock was his flat mate, his partner, his friend._

_But nothing more… _

_Except dead._

John was fighting a battle between possibility and reality.

_But was it really possibility? _

He had just thought about kissing Sherlock Holmes, that _wasn't_ possible. Reality was here and now,_ Mary_ was kissing him. This was _reality_.

_Not Sherlock._

_Reality._

_Reality was much better._

_Possibility was much too pliable, distrustful. _

Mary was the one to break away, her breathing was fast and so was her heart rate. John could feel the fast pulse in her neck where his hand lay. He pulled away, trying to get oxygen back. He felt his face flush. "Sorry about that," he said in a breathless voice.

But when he looked back at Mary, she didn't look sorry, she looked happy. She smiled and put her hands to his face to cover the blush that had rose to his skin. "John… kiss me again," he breathed a laugh, and before she could say anything more, he was kissing her again.

Later that night, John entered Harry's home, he could hear the television on in the other room.

"John?" She called, sounding a little sleepy, "How's Mary?" He took off his coat and walked into the living room down the hall. He sat in a chair beside the couch where Harry was spread out, he leaned the bloody cane against his leg.

"She's fine, we had a great time." John smiled, but there was a little bit of unease behind his expression. The influx of strange thoughts of Sherlock had bewildered him a lot, as soon as that seed had taken root, it was difficult to de-root.

Harry sat up from the couch and looked at John with a sly smile. "Did you kiss her?" she asked with excitement in her voice. John looked back with a blush coming to his face. "Uh… yeah" he mumbled, looking at the floor, he played with his clammy fingers. He nearly jumped at Harry's squeal, it sounded so odd coming from his sister's mouth.

"I _knew_ it!" She jumped up and pulled her brother into a bone-crushing hug. John laughed, trying to let his strange thoughts dissipate and dissolve to nothing. "You see, John, I can do a little deducing of my own!" She knew the reference to Sherlock might sting, but she wanted to test him, see if he was getting better without actually asking directly, and John could see right through her.

"Oh, _really_," he replied with a similar sly smile.

Harry stood before him, arms crossed and her nose in the air. "Your hair is ruffled in the same way it would be if someone had run their hands through it. I know it couldn't be you who did that, because you would never ruffle your hair, the military as made you very neat and clean-cut. Also, I remember your teenage years where you'd arrive late at night, embarrassment on your face and your hair and clothes dishevelled. Coincidentally, you came home in similar disarray Therefore, you must have snogged Mary." Harry bowed, and backed away to take a seat again, John complimented her deduction and then flattened his hair nervously.

"You know… I think you really love that girl. And I'm happy that you kissed her," Harry looked at John with full honesty in her expression, she reached a hand to his shoulder and squeezed. John tried to respond with something… _anything_. His mouth was dry, he knew that he loved Mary, but something was keeping him from believing it. He didn't understand how he could be so sure of his feelings until tonight. Something had changed, something very small had shifted his whole perspective and he didn't like it. He felt like something was screwing with his mind, an itch he couldn't scratch. He wanted to take a scalpel and carve a deep incision into his soul, find that seed before it grew into a spreading weed. He didn't know what to call it.

"John, I'm going to bed. See you in the morning," Harry stood up and ruffled his hair on the way to the staircase. Flattening his hair again, John stalked towards the kitchen. He opened every cupboard and drawer, looking for some form of alcohol until he remembered that Harry wouldn't have it anymore. John became desperate very quickly as he looked in every possible hiding place he could think of. Harry _had_ to have a secret supply for emergencies _somewhere_.

Just as John was going to give up with exhaustion, he found a small bottle of wine. It looked expensive and unopened, but John needed something. After pulling the cork, he poured a large glass of the red liquid. John had never been much of a drinker, he got turned off of alcohol after seeing what it did to his father and his sister. Of course he still drank at formal dinners and parties, but it wasn't something he enjoyed much. Even as he took a testing sip, he had to keep himself from throwing the rest of the wine into the sink. Harry would throw him out of her house in seconds if she found out that he poured expensive wine down the drain.

After a few more sips, John got used to the taste and took the bottle and glass to the guest bedroom. The thoughts of Sherlock that had arisen and lingered that evening were soon forgotten as he got closer to the bottom of the bottle. The next morning, John would wake up with a hangover, and Harry wouldn't know about the disappearance of the little expensive wine bottle that she kept hidden under the sink.


	9. Good For Brainwork

Sherlock celebrated New Years Eve by thrusting another needle in his arm. He was alone, his room was a mess, but he was on to something.

Maps of London, of the United Kingdom, of Europe were littered on the walls, the floor, his bed. He sat in the centre of the mattress, a few used needles were on the nightstand. As he injected the last millimetre of liquid into his veins, his heart rate skyrocketed, equations and elements whirled around in his head. Everything flashed before him, almost too fast for the great Sherlock Holmes.

He didn't know the time, or even what day it was. He only left the basement to get more drugs, it was a risk he was willing to take. Of course Mycroft knew, he knew _everything_. Molly hand tried to overlook Sherlock's renewed drug addiction, but it was becoming more and more difficult to take care of him. He never slept, never ate, and he always seemed to be zoned out. He didn't even acknowledge her visits anymore. Sometimes he'd figure something out and call for John but than forget that he wasn't here anymore. He didn't ask Molly about Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. He didn't ask about John, but with every quick breath he took into his lungs, John seemed to be the only word he said again and again. It was like a mantra, something to give him initiative.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Molly had tried to tell Sherlock about John's new relationship with Mary Morstan, but she could never get his attention for long enough. He had become hollowed out, skin and bones. His eyes were dark and almost animal-like in their appearance. Molly became a sort of nurse, she left food around the room, even if he didn't eat it. She'd sedate him and pull his unconscious, limp body into the bathtub once a week for a bath. He slept at times, but very little. It was a miracle that Sherlock was still alive at this rate. Of course she constantly worried about him, it interrupted her work and home life. She'd had one boyfriend since Sherlock's drug frenzy, but that guy left her soon after he discovered that she didn't seem to have any free time. Dating would be put on hold until Sherlock smartened up, Mycroft had a backup plan in case Sherlock took a turn for the worse, but Molly was still hoping he'd pull himself together soon. Molly always had room for hope, she was always optimistic.

_There was a dark room. It was cold, quiet… too quiet. Sherlock could only hear his footsteps on the floor. Then there was a small water drop sound coming from the right. A window let in a little light, not much, but enough for Sherlock to see his surroundings in the small room. Where was he?_

_It looked like their flat. At Baker Street. But something was different, it looked too different. Where was John?_

_"John?" he called out, not very loud, but loud enough to echo throughout the sitting room. Sherlock quickly recognized the room, it made him feel a little more secure. He looked at the spray painted smiley face on the wall to his right, the bullet holes, the victorian patterned wallpaper. Looking to his left, he saw the chairs, the bookshelf, the mirror on the wall. He walked up to the mirror, looked at his reflection. The image was distorted, the glass in the mirror was cracked, shattered. _

_Strange..._

_Sherlock heard something coming from his room, he turned toward the sound. He knew that he had heard something, but he didn't know what it had been. He could feel his heart rate begin to quicken as he stepped through the kitchen, into the hall towards his bedroom. The door was partly open, a little sliver of natural light shone through. _

_Raising a cold and pale hand to the doorknob, he turned the handle carefully, slowly. He stepped into the room and looked at the bed to his left. _

_"John," he whispered, feeling his heart fall in his chest, his breathing stopped. He stared, wide-eyed, at his best friend, pinned to the bed with a gun to his head. A man was crouched over him, a man from Mycroft's files. The assassin. John's assassin. Sherlock looked up at the stranger, he felt a lump rise in his throat as thought of something to say, a way to reason with the man. _

_"You're not dead," the man said, his voice was rough and angry. But there was a smile on his face. Sherlock looked back at John who had obviously been surprised by Sherlock's return. John had thought that he was dead, and now John was the one facing death. A solitary tear rolled down John's face, he looked so scared, Sherlock was supposed to save him._

_"I'm not a hero, John," Sherlock spoke, tears rolling down his own face, his hands raised in surrender. _

_There was a gunshot._

"John!" Sherlock cried as he pushed at someone's body against him. He released himself and stumbled backwards, falling onto the ground with a loud thump.

"Sherlock! I was trying to help you! Are you alright?" It was Molly, she sounded worried, terrified by Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock sat up from the floor of his basement room, his body was shaking with sobs.

"I need to save John!" he mumbled as he tried to stand, only to fall back to the ground. Molly looked so tired and worn out, she pulled at him to sitting up. Then she circled her arms around his chest, holding him tightly as he struggled.

"Sherlock… John's fine, he's safe. You just had a dream, John's fine. You're fine." She tried to sound calm but her voice was starting to break. Sherlock continued to cry in her arms, giving up his fight and leaning his weight onto her.

"He was at the flat… He had John… He killed John!" Sherlock didn't calm down for awhile. But when he finally gave in to the sleeping pills Molly gave him, she put him back to bed and sorted his bedroom. Molly stayed in his sitting room until she had to leave for work in the morning.

"John!" Sherlock gasped, panting and sweating. He was tangled in bed sheets this time, the maps from his mattress were moved, and the empty needles were no longer on his nightstand. Another nightmare. He didn't know which one had been worse. Molly must have been there earlier to straighten up the place and sedate him so he could get some sleep. He rolled over gently towards his alarm clock, it was New Years Day and he had limited memory of the events from last night.

_How had he even fallen asleep? _

_He was supposed to work through the night._

Sherlock was very close to finding the first assassin. Lestrade's assassin. Turning on the bedroom lamp, he squinted up at the maps on the walls. He had to keep going.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Each heartbeat, each breath he exhaled was John. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he'd have his John back.

_His oxygen._

_Had he really just said "His John", "His oxygen"? _

The flavour of those words in his mind were not bitter or strange… just an acquired taste. Something to get used to. Only a year ago, he was in his flat, New Years morning. John had woken him up with breakfast made. They ate together, but there was silence.

_Oh. _

_Right._

It was right after John found out that Irene Adler was alive. Sherlock had known that she wasn't dead from the moment he saw the body in the morgue. Of course the measurements on the body were off, it was someone else entirely, but Sherlock lied.

_Lies came easy to him, he lived off of lies._

_So many lies._

_And quite literally, in fact._

John had been cheerful, but there was an underlying feeling of anxiety under his relaxed and happy demeanour. And he never told John what he knew. He didn't think it would matter. But John's reaction to Irene's reveal surprised him. John seemed out of sorts, spooked, thoughtful…

Sherlock never asked John about what Irene said to him on that day in the abandoned warehouse. He didn't think it was important. So Sherlock played the violin for most of the day, sticking to Christmas carols and familiar classical music. _They didn't mention Irene..._

Sherlock came back to the present, alone and broken in this humbling state. He looked down at the scars and puncture marks running along his arms, he shivered. The rush and need for cocaine would return at some point, but for now, it was best to continue his hunt.

_Priorities: John_

Sherlock breathed out, remembering finally what had awoken him from his sleep just moments ago.

_He had had a dream, John was with a woman._

_ A beautiful woman for that matter. _

_Someone who had long flowing hair, rich and young features, a heart that would love John and treat him well. _

_She was everything that John had ever wanted in a woman, a companion. _

_A name came to mind… Mary? _

_Who was Mary?_

_The dream got worse when Sherlock realized he was in the same room as the couple, they didn't see him there. _

_Sherlock was invisible to them. _

_But before he could analyze this scene with further detail, John was kissing Mary. Sherlock had felt something boil up in his chest, and realized there was a gun in his hand. _

_Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger, killing the dream character named "Mary". _

_There was blood all over John, his lips were still wet from their kiss and he looked horrified as he noticed Sherlock's presence. _

_John had started panicking, crying, he yelled at Sherlock, asking him why he had killed her. _

_Sherlock felt upset, shocked by his own behaviour. _

_He had dropped the gun as if it weighed as much as a ton of bricks. _

_He went towards John to comfort him, but John told him to go away. _

_John told Sherlock that he had ruined his life. _

_Taken away everything that John had ever cared about. _

_Then John told him to never come back. _

_And Sherlock shrunk back in fear, alone… a freak, a machine. _

_But it was only a dream. _

_Sherlock had to remember that. _

_But when he saw the blood on John's face…_

_It reminded him of the other dream he had that night._

_The assassin had killed John._

_Sherlock watched._

_Sherlock saw the hole in his head, the blood._

_So much blood… _

Sherlock felt the panic rise in his chest again. Would he ever kill someone who John loved? Would he ever watch John die?

His moment of insecurity was interrupted by his cell-phone. Sherlock didn't get any calls or texts anymore. Everyone thought he was dead. But in an instant, he knew who had just sent him a text. Though he couldn't get his hopes up…

Walking over towards the phone on his nightstand, he looked at the most recent message.

_I don't want to forget you. JW_

Sherlock looked down at the simple message, he felt an unfamiliar ache in the centre of his chest. It was a melting feeling, a damaged feeling. It was accompanied by a flutter of relief.

_Strange_. Again, another acquired taste for Sherlock to understand. Now, more than ever, he wanted to reply. In fact, he did.

_I will never forget you. SH_

But instead of pressing reply, Sherlock erased his text and threw his phone onto the messy bed. Without a second thought, he pulled off his worn t-shirt, then pulled down his pyjama pants. Walking into the washroom, he looked himself over in the blotchy stand-up mirror. It was the first time he had looked at himself in… well… a long time. And though he didn't care much these days, he didn't like what he saw.

Sherlock's hair was clumped up and messy, standing up at odd angles. Moving to his face, he noticed the darkness surrounding his eyes from lack of sleep. He cheeks were hollowed out, the bones in his face had become much more prominent over the past few months. The stubble that had grown on his face was starting to become more like a beard. His gaze then moved to his torso, bones were easy to see through the thin layer of skin. His arms were a mess from needles and scars. He then looked down his legs, the muscle he had before from running around London was now gone, he was all skin and bones.

Without dwelling on his poor appearance any longer, he climbed into the shower and washed his skin clean of sweat, blood and even tears. It felt good to be clean, refreshed. As if he had washed away the agony from last night, the agony that he held within himself all these months.

When he stepped out of the tub, he wrapped a towel round his waist and went back to his room to organized the maps. His eyes lingered on his cocaine supply.

_Maybe just one injection. _

_Only one. _

_It would help._

And as soon as the thin needle tip slipped through his skin, he felt release, he felt invigorated and ready. The nightmares were forgotten. But one thing remained.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Every beat of his heart said that name, over and over. He got dressed and then moved towards a map. It didn't take long for him to sketch out his route to the assassin's hideout. He drew a red line in marker along the map, his heart rate pounded, he was so close to finding that bastard.

But just as he was rounding a corner on the map with the red line, there was a knock at the main-door. He realized that he had hit a dead end.

_Damn._

Sherlock grabbed the used needle and threw it in the bin as he strode towards the door. He turned the handle to find Mycroft on the other side, a stern expression and look of disgust on his face. He could see that Sherlock had just taken a dose a few minutes ago.

Sherlock scowled at his brother and moved away from the door, going back to the map on the floor. He crouched over the red trail, wondering where he went wrong...

Mycroft took slow steps toward the map and looked over Sherlock's shoulder with curiosity. He handed some new files to Sherlock and studied the map himself.

Sherlock took the papers and scanned over them as he sat on the sofa. Mycroft's men had found five groups of employees over the past several months. That was impressive considering how slow they usually were.

"You've missed something," Mycroft mumbled as he straighten and turned towards his brother. Sherlock look up at Mycroft with frustration.

_Brilliant, Mycroft, how could you tell?_

Mycroft stepped closer, his hands behind his back and a smug smile on his face, "Did you ever open that envelop that I gave you?"

Sherlock looked back at him with confusion that slowly shifted to realization.

_Oh._

_Mycroft had brought that envelop here a few months ago._

_Where could it-_

"No…" Sherlock stood from the sofa and crouched, a hand disappearing under the cushions. Soon, he withdrew the envelop. It was bent in one corner and covered with lint and dust, but as Sherlock slid open the paper, he found the documents inside to look perfectly fine.

Mycroft breathed a laugh and looked back down at the map on the floor, "You haven't changed, dear brother. You still overlook the most obvious of clues. Inside you will find all the personal information belonging to Assassin Number One. Any and all of that information can be used against him and make it much easier to find the next assassin. This map is quite good, but you're missing the exact building location. When I gave you that envelop, I expected this to happen, but I must say that you still work pretty quick… even with the use of harsh drugs."

Sherlock ignored the rest of Mycroft's comments about his lifestyle choices and strategies, instead, he looked through the papers. Everything was here, but there was still more to solve. Even though Mycroft had assisted Sherlock in finding information and tracking down minor employees from Moriarty's web, Mycroft would never give Sherlock a straight answer. Not even Mycroft knew all the answers they had been looking for. Moriarty would never make the game that easy.

"Any news?" Sherlock asked to change to subject. Mycroft was still trying to give Sherlock a lecture about drug use, but it would be no good. Sherlock never listened to anyone.

Mycroft came to sit in a chair across from Sherlock, he folded his hands together and cleared his throat. "Well, it looks like Greg Lestrade may get his job back by mid-April at this rate. Nothing is written in stone, but I've… discussed things with the bosses back at Scotland Yard and they seemed to like my offer-"

"Meaning that you threatened them…" Sherlock interrupted with a grin, crossing his arms.

"Precisely… also, we've been getting new leads on who the second assassin could be. There's no harm in working ahead. The world doesn't know of Moriarty's death yet, thankfully, so we've been working on ways to trick Moriarty's employees into thinking he is still alive and well, but in hiding since your suicide." Sherlock, staring off into space. His heart rate was still quite fast since his recent injection. He tried to hide his energy by tapping his foot, but it was obvious that Mycroft understood Sherlock's movements completely.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked as worry coloured his tone by mistake. Mycroft smiled at Sherlock's worry, relieved that his little bother even _had_ emotions. "She's fine. Still at Baker Street with not a worry in the world. She visits your grave every week, brings new flowers. A beautiful assortment, if you saw the way she's been affected, you'd feel less sorry for John."

Sherlock felt cold at Mycroft's words, that _stung_. Of course Sherlock had felt guilty about Mrs. Hudson, she had been more of a mother than Sherlock's biological mother ever was. And how could Mycroft compare her to _John_. Sherlock had to look away from Mycroft's cruel gaze in order to compose himself. Breathing was still rapid. If Mycroft read Sherlock's thoughts much closer, he'd hear:

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Mycroft laughed and Sherlock fell out of his drugged stupor. He glared at his brother, wondering if he actually_ had_ read his mind. "It really astounds me that you care so deeply about Dr. Watson," Mycroft continued cruelly. "Have you developed_ feelings_ for the doctor?"

_That was it._

Sherlock jumped up and gripped Mycroft by the collar of his jacket. He tried to muster all the hatred and anger he could, but it didn't translate well on his features. Mycroft found him even _more_ amusing.

"How _dare_ you," Sherlock growled through his teeth, tempted to punch Mycroft then and there. Sherlock had never gotten upset about the comments people made about him and John, implying that they were in a relationship. John was the one to fuss about it. Sherlock didn't find it worth his frustration, also, he didn't mind the observations and "accusations" from others. Mycroft found it even more amusing. "Do you think you could hide it all this time? It's been obvious from the start. I can _see_ things, Sherlock. I observe more than you _ever_ could. When did you discover that you had deeper feelings for the doctor? When you stood on that rooftop? Ready to say goodbye with the possibility of never seeing him again?" There was a playfulness and cruelty in Mycroft's voice that made Sherlock feel numb, made him want to hide in his room.

_To tell the truth, Sherlock had no idea when he first discovered his feelings for John._

_Maybe they were never there._

_Maybe they were always there._

"It's too late, you know," Mycroft said a little brokenly, yet still maintaining his stance. "John's moved on. He has someone new. A woman who can love him back. _Properly_." Sherlock felt his eyes widen and his adrenaline soar through his system.

_No._

_God. Please. No._

"Her name is Mary. Mary Morstan, a neighbour of Harriet Watson's, a primary school tutor."

_Mary._

_Mary Morstan._

Sherlock didn't know what to retort back, he felt his heart fall in his chest.

This was reality, kicking him into shape again.

Possibility had lost this round.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John…_

Mycroft watched Sherlock fall apart before his own eyes. Sherlock collapsed into a broken pile. He wasn't crying. He wasn't even shaking.

He just stared at the floor under his hands and knees, silent as the grave.

_John._

_John._

_JOHN._

_JOHN._

Everything was screaming inside Sherlock's head, he crawled towards the bin and vomited whatever happened to be in his stomach. His arms were itching, his head was spinning. A cold sweat broke out on his skin as he coughed into the bin.

Opening his eyes for a moment, he focused on the used needle lying on the bottom of the bin, sprayed with the contents of Sherlock's stomach.

A voice was speaking to him, it was over him, holding him together in this dreamlike state. It was a voice like music, so safe and close. He hadn't heard that voice in so long. It sounded so weak because Sherlock was starting to forget what it sounded like.

_I don't want to forget you._

Sherlock wanted to reach up and touch the face of the speaker. He wanted to kiss those lips, caress him and drink in the smell of his skin.

_I will never forget you._

It was the last thing that Sherlock thought before a heavy weight pushed down on his chest and darkness surrounded him. The voice was just a memory now…


	10. The Whole Truth

_John was running again. _

_Maybe this time, he could catch Sherlock as he fell from the rooftop. _

_Maybe he could break the fall, save him. _

_He ran as fast as he could, his legs felt so heavy, his lungs burned so much. _

_Sherlock._

_I'm here._

_The distance still seemed too long, Sherlock was falling too fast._

_There would be no possible way for Sherlock to survive that fall… _

_No possible way for John to catch him. _

_The tears were already starting to cloud John's vision as he began to fall forward onto the cold hard concrete. _

_There was no biker this time. _

_After looking up from the ground, his palms still glued to the ground beneath him._

_He didn't see Sherlock falling anymore._

_Wait… Sherlock wasn't on the concrete either._

_And John couldn't stand up, he was prostrate on the concrete, he felt hot fluid roll down past his ear, down his forehead. _

_Someone was standing over him, a gun was in their hand, still smoking from the tip. _

_John felt weak, tired, he wanted to close his eyes and sleep. _

_There was laughing, it was from the stranger with the gun._

_Wait… It was one of the men from a file Mycroft gave John. _

_One of the assassins after Sherlock. _

_But… he was standing over John now. _

_John was the… target?_

_Where was Sherlock? _

_Why hadn't he saved him? _

_Was this how it would end?_

_"Sherlock," John said with difficulty. _

_He felt cold now, numb and shaking all over. _

_But he couldn't move still. _

_His hands were glued at the sides of his head against the concrete. _

_There was a smell of iron, the warm liquid was now dripping from his face, clouding his vision with red and pooling around him._

_Blood._

_The gun… _

_The man…_

_John got shot._

_"John!" someone cried behind John, running toward him. _

_John couldn't see the person running to him, but he recognized the voice._

_"Sherlock…" John said again, much quieter this time. _

_The man above him didn't laugh anymore. He grunted above John and made a clicking sound with the gun. _

_"John!" Sherlock cried as he fell to John's side. _

_John felt his body being lifted, the hot liquid rolled down into his mouth and he struggled to spit it out. _

_He could almost see Sherlock's face above him. _

_Sherlock was crying, brushing away, what must have been blood, from John's face. _

_John started to feel the hole in the back of his skull, he felt so open, so exposed. _

_Was he dying?_

_"John, stay with me!" Sherlock said above him, holding him close. _

_John wanted to speak, but something was preventing him from moving. _

_He was… paralyzed. _

_There was another loud bang._

_Before he could think or feel anymore, he felt himself fall away. _

_It was dark and quiet._

_Sherlock was gone._

John woke up shaking, his face was wet from something hot… another warm liquid. But this time, it was tears, not blood. John clutched at his sheets, it was so dark and quiet in his room. The only light was coming from a crack in the drapes, it was moonlight. John felt like everything was so real, he couldn't convince himself that it was only a dream until he touched the back of his head. There was no hole there, no blood.

_It was just a dream._

_A very real dream._

John sat up and felt for the light switch. Turning it on, he blinked and squinted his eyes which were still swollen from crying. "Sherlock," he whispered as he glared at his surroundings. He almost forgot that he was in the guest room at his sister's house, not at Baker Street.

If this were Baker Street, and Sherlock was still alive, John might have gone downstairs to sit beside Sherlock's bedroom door. He'd done it a few times during his time with Sherlock. When he had the really terrible dreams about the war, he'd sit outside Sherlock's bedroom door and fight off sleep. Something about being a little closer to another human-being comforted him. As a child, he'd go to Harry's room, or his parents room after a bad dream. Most of the time, it was Harry, because his parents were not as soft as other parents might be with their young children.

A couple nights, as he sat outside Sherlock's bedroom door, Sherlock would find him, and without a word, Sherlock would pull his dressing gown over his shoulders and pull John up from the ground. They'd go to the sofa and Sherlock would make tea. It was one of the odd times where Sherlock had actually done something for John. It was comforting, and in the middle of the night, there hadn't been any misconceptions about Sherlock's unusually kind behaviour or motives. In the morning, Sherlock and John wouldn't mention the display of kindness and affection. Sherlock wouldn't tease John about the nightmares, and John wouldn't tease Sherlock about comforting him.

_It was give and take._

_It worked._

_They worked._

John smiled at the memories, it had eased away the pain of his most recent nightmare. Though the memories were _also_ nice, they brought a bitter taste to John's mouth.

_Sherlock._

_He missed Sherlock so much._

Of course John wouldn't go to his sister's room tonight. She'd laugh at him, think he was being childish. They were adults now, he couldn't do that anymore.

_Sherlock wouldn't have teased him about it._

_In fact, John didn't think Sherlock minded childish behaviour at all._

_Did he even recognize it?_

_Sherlock had been so childish in his ways that he probably never regarded John's visits as "childish"._

Taking deep breathes, John drank some of the water from the glass on his nightstand. It would ease the bad taste in his mouth. John didn't sleep anymore that night, instead, he thought about the files that Mycroft had given him before Sherlock's death. He felt like the information about those assassins was important.

_How could they be important now that Sherlock was dead?_

_After all, they were watching Sherlock, not John._

_But was John being watched?_

Those thoughts had haunted him for awhile. He'd have to pay closer attention to his surroundings. He could never be too careful… especially since Moriarty _had_ to be out there… somewhere.

John had loved all the time he spent with Mary, but there were many times that he had to distance himself. Mary understood, but not completely, because she didn't know the whole reason for John's grief. He had told her that it was memories of war in Afghanistan, which had been partly true… but John had become very occupied with the thoughts of his recent dreams, and thoughts about the files that collected dust at 221B Baker Street.

Mycroft had told him that he shouldn't worry about Jim Moriarty. With his place in the British government, Mycroft could easily rid of Moriarty for good. He assured John that moving on and forgetting about that insane manic was best, after all, it was the least he could do after giving Moriarty all the ammunition he needed to bring down Sherlock. But John still had a nagging fear that he was still being watched.

John was a military man. He wasn't as stupid as Mycroft had played him to be. John had instinct on his side, he knew when something was up. Of course he wasn't perfect, sometimes he was slow to see the truth sneak up on him, but he learned to be cautious, especially around the time of Moriarty's trial. John should have nothing to worry about, he should completely trust Mycroft. But there was nothing wrong with keeping an eye out. Being more observant was a skill he'd have to concentrate on now.

_First, he'd have to tell Mary about Sherlock._

_Then, he'd have to talk to Mycroft._

_And finally, John could live his life with Mary and hopefully move on past this odd turn of events. _

John knocked at Mary's door and she welcomed him inside a couple seconds later. John pulled her into a hug and planted a soft kiss on her lips. Mary responded and smiled against his lips.

Parting away, Mary looked up at John with so much affection in her eyes, John had never seen so much love in a woman's eyes before. It made him feel secure, needed, happy.

_John hadn't been this happy in awhile…_

Mary brought him to her living room and sat him down. He admired the way she walked with so much elegance and grace, she wasn't even dressed in formal wear, but John _still_ felt underdressed in his jeans and green jumper.

Mary curled up next to him and held his hands, she looked at him with a little concern and comfort. John had told her that he wanted to talk to her about something this evening, something that would help him get better. Mary was prepared to hear anything, and she was a naturally open-minded and sincere person. She wanted to help John get better, she hated to see him close himself in, hide his pain.

"Okay…" John began, he squeezed her hands in his own and smiled at her, "I wanted to talk to you tonight about my life before coming to Harry's place. A life that doesn't involve Afghanistan. Something that I haven't told you about before because I wasn't ready…"

"Go head, love," Mary said reassuringly and patiently. John felt so calm and ready, this had become the perfect moment to tell her about Sherlock Holmes and his life at 221B Baker Street.

John started with telling her about his meeting with Mike Stamford, how he wanted to share a flat to save money. He told Mary about meeting Sherlock Holmes, the only Consulting Detective in the world. She listened carefully and eagerly, only interrupting him twice to ask questions. John felt a little panicked at first, but opened up when she responded well.

He told her about life at Baker Street, the cases, his friendship with Sherlock. She looked at him with worry when he talked about Sherlock's death, she squeezed his hand when he tried to tell her about his secret mourning. When he finished, she pulled him into a hug and told him how she admired the way he talked about Sherlock, how proud she was that John had been so brave during this ordeal. She told him how she admired his friendship with Sherlock and would have loved to know the man.

The conversation eased John incredibly. He felt so light, happy, talking about Sherlock had helped him move forward in his grieving process. He felt so much love for Mary, he was so happy to have met her, to have told her about all of this. He was overjoyed that she understood and supported him in every way.

_Was it even possible that a woman could be this perfect?_

John felt, in that moment that he had found someone with whom he could share the rest of his life with. In that moment, he wished that he could propose to Mary, ask her to marry him before something so perfect could slip from his fingers.

_Just as Sherlock had slipped through his fingers…_

_Falling to the concrete..._

After their heartfelt talk, they held each other and kissed. They kissed for awhile yet it felt like only a few minutes. Then Mary stood from the sofa and took John's hand. John followed her to the bedroom where they made love and then talked and laughed together for hours. Time ran by. It was almost dawn when Mary fell asleep under John's arm, he watched her breathe, her chest rising and falling beautifully. He could feel her heartbeat, the sound was so comforting. They slept together in each other's arms, content, and John never realized that he had no nightmares that night.

In the late morning, they woke up within minutes of each other. John played with Mary's blond hair, looking at how it became gold in the light from the window. Mary smiled at him, told him that she loved him. And to John's surprise, he told her that he loved her too.

They stayed in bed a little longer, kissing. John mind was reeling. Images flashed through his head.

_Proposing with a diamond ring, having Mary say yes._

_Watching her come down the aisle, she's glowing, beautiful._

_That first kiss as a married couple._

_John and Mary Watson._

_That sounded nice…_

_A little house, just outside of London._

_They could live close to Harry._

_A son. He'd be named Sherlock._

_Such an odd name, so unique. _

_Sherlock..._

_What would have happened if things went differently?_

_John wouldn't know Mary… _

_But Sherlock would still be alive… _

_Sherlock would still be alive..._


	11. Hide and Seek

"Sherlock?" John's voice was soft, quiet, coming from their hotel room door. Sherlock pretended to be asleep already as he heard John close the door behind him and sit on his bed beside Sherlock's, the springs in John's mattress grunted under his weight.

_They were in Dartmoor. _

_The little hotel near Baskerville._

Sherlock kept his breathing regular, his body was turned toward the window that was located on the left side of his small bed. John was behind him, to the right of his bed. Sherlock didn't want John to know that he was awake, but he kept his eyes open, listening to John's movements. He had left the dim lamp on before John entered, it provided enough light for John to change into his pyjamas easier.

_They had had a fight earlier._

_Sherlock had yelled at John._

_Sherlock had told John that he "didn't have friends"._

_John was hurt by that statement._

_John walked away._

_Probably to get some air._

_That was his frequented excuse._

Of course Sherlock felt terrible as soon as the words left his mouth. He _really_ hadn't thought that one through. Of course Sherlock didn't understand emotions, he didn't realize that that statement would hurt John so much. But it wasn't hard to notice the way that John's face fell, the way that he walked out of the room. Sherlock felt guilt consume him. After texting John about Henry's therapist, he went directly to bed. He hoped that all would be forgotten, forgiven. Sherlock didn't like the way that relationships got messy. Hurting John would hurt their friendship, and even though Sherlock didn't want to care about friendships, he cared about his friendship with John.

Sherlock could hear John pull his jumper over his head. He could hear John's breathing, he could hear John pull a worn t-shirt over his head, the same one that John wore to bed every night. Sherlock didn't move as he heard a belt buckle, a zipper, the material of John's jeans fall to the ground. Sherlock's heart rate began to quicken.

_Why?_

_Was he afraid of being discovered as awake?_

_Was he afraid that John was still angry at him?_

_Was he thinking about how John looked undressed?_

_It seemed to be all three..._

_Interesting._

John was pulling up his pyjama pants now, then pulling back the sheets from his bed. The springs in the mattress groaned again as John lay down and adjusted under the sheets. Sherlock listened as John leaned over to the nightstand between their beds and switched the lamp off with a small click.

It was dark now. Sherlock listened to John's breathing become regular, it became his sleeping rhythm. Sherlock's eyes were still open, his brain was thinking furiously.

_Trying to rationalize the hound he saw earlier… _

_Trying to rationalize his feelings about John…_

Sherlock waited for John to enter REM sleep. He turned to face John's bed, saw his eyelids flutter, his pulse was faster, so was his breathing. John was deep in sleep.

_He was dreaming now._

Sherlock sat up on his bed, looking over at John. He felt an odd leap within his belly, there was an odd and unrecognizable feeling in the region where his heart lay, beating against his ribcage. He could see John easily with the moonlight that escaped from the window beside Sherlock.

_John looked upset, even in sleep._

_Something was troubling him, possibly a dream?_

Sherlock bit his lip, unsure of what to do now. Should he hold John? Tell him that whatever is bothering him is only a dream, his mind playing tricks on him?

_Like the hound that Sherlock saw tonight?_

Sherlock carefully slid to the edge of his bed, there was only a few inches of distance between both beds.

_Sherlock's vision began to get hazy, cloudy, as if this wasn't happening. _

_There was a small creaking sound under his bare feet, where he stepped toward John's bed. John didn't move, he was still sleeping._

_Sherlock took another step closer, his knees were touching John's bed frame now._

_John was lying on his back, one hand was on his chest, the other was beside his head on the pillow. John's worry lines were dominant, Sherlock felt guilt wash over him, he felt like he was the blame for John's worries. He never deserved John, John was too good for him._

_Sherlock sat at the edge of John's mattress, John's thigh was against Sherlock's lower back. He shifted his position so that he was crouched on the bed beside John's body. He could feel the waves of body heat touch his own skin, make him shiver._

_Sherlock laid gentle fingers against John's forehead, he smoothed his touch over the worry lines, trying to make them go away._

_There's nothing to worry about, John… _

_John must have felt Sherlock's fingers on his face, or read Sherlock's mind, because now he was awake. John looked up at Sherlock with tired eyes, the worry was still there. Sherlock looked back at John, into those blue eyes. _

_Why was John scared?_

_John's right hand moved from the pillow and grabbed onto Sherlock's wrist, he pulled Sherlock's hand away from his face and examined Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock just watched, waited to see what John would do._

_John pulled Sherlock fingers closer to his face again, Sherlock could feel the heat from John's breath against his fingers, he leaned over John a little more. John looked back into Sherlock's eyes, there was concern, a question in the way that his eyebrows raised. Sherlock parted his lips and felt his face flush. John brought Sherlock's fingers to his lips, he kissed those slim, pale fingers._

_Sherlock felt something unbearable rise in his chest, he leaned the palm of his unoccupied hand beside John's chest on the mattress. Sherlock leaned in closer, their bodies were almost touching._

_"I'm sorry," Sherlock spoke, his voice rough and full of feeling. John stopped kissing his fingers and looked back up at Sherlock, their faces were so close now. Sherlock had no idea how any of this worked, he didn't know how to read the signs. There was a look in John's eyes that told Sherlock that something was coming, and before Sherlock could think anymore, John had reached up and kissed Sherlock on the lips._

_The feeling was… something he'd never experienced before. It was new, different, strange. It beckoned for more. Sherlock kissed him back, not knowing how, but feeling like he was getting it right._

_Sherlock was lying on top of John now, the blanket separated them, a symbolic barrier that told Sherlock that this shouldn't be happening. (Beds were meant for sleeping.) This went against everything that Sherlock and John had ever expected, hoped for, wished for. But they didn't plan on crossing any more boundaries, this seemed to be the extent that their affection would take. They kissed and it was beautiful. John had his fingers running through Sherlock's hair, it was a nice feeling. Sherlock had a hand on John's chest, a reminder of something… but what?_

_His other hand was holding him up, supporting him so that his weight wouldn't fall onto John and become uncomfortable. _

_Sherlock liked the way that their lips moved together, it felt right. John seemed to like it too. He could feel a tongue slide across his lips and he shivered. _

_This was so unsanitary._

_But Sherlock could get used to this…_

Sherlock exhaled, smoke rose from his lips into the bedroom of his room. The ceiling was hazy with a layer of smoke. He closed his eyes and thought back on the memory from Dartmoor, he smiled as he felt pleasure ripple through him. His groin became uncomfortable under his clothing, but he ignored it. Concentrating instead on the images flying around in his head, he breathed a laugh and sucked in another breath from his joint. Weed did wonders for his imagination, it made him think of things he wouldn't have even considered while clean.

Of course, everything that he had just remembered was all memory, but only half of it actually happened.

That night, he had faked sleep when John came in, indeed, he even looked over at John's sleeping form in the bed beside his own. But the rest was a dream, a drug induced dream that came to Sherlock that night. Thinking back to it now, it had probably come to him because the gas from Dewer's Hollow was still in his system, making him see what he had wanted to see.

_Just like the hound. _

_Seeing what you want to see, what you're afraid to see._

Smoking a joint had given him a new outlook on the dream he had that night at the hotel in Dartmoor.

_Did he really have feelings for John all this time? _

_Were these feelings hidden somewhere in Sherlock's mind-palace, like a great mind-game of "Hide and Go Seek"?_

Sherlock laughed at the thought, it would be fun to play in his mind-palace, just this once. He'd look through every room, in every shelf and every drawer.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are!_

Sherlock zoned out, the smoke was gone and so was the taste of it on his tongue. He wasn't even sitting on his bed in that rubbish basement room that he was forced to live in. He was in the entrance of his mind-palace. Counting to ten, he put his hands over his eyes. When he was finished counting, his eyes glanced at every surface.

He creeped into one of the sitting rooms, where he kept information about various art work and bits of foreign travel. He looked under the embroidered cushions, behind picture frames, under the Persian carpets. Nothing was hiding in there…

Sherlock moved towards one of the many offices where he kept his organizational habits. Nothing was hiding under the desk, nor in the ink bottle, or the file cabinet.

He looked everywhere on the first floor, going through the different wings and finding every possibly hiding place. Nothing on the first floor.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are!_

He took the grand, golden staircase to the second floor. So many possibilities. If nothing was hiding on this floor, he'd have to go to the third floor. But each room left him disappointed. There was nothing hiding anywhere. Sherlock looked out the great windows from the east wing and let his eyes scan over the garden outside, not too far from the stone path, he saw his wishing well.

A flutter of hope spread through his chest and he rushed away from the window and down the hall. Sherlock jumped down the stairs, not caring about leaving any scuff marks on the expensive marble floors. He sprinted out the door and toward the stone path to his left, over by the east wing of the palace. He followed the path toward the wishing well and once he was close enough, he looked inside it's depths.

This wishing well had been one of the first things that Sherlock constructed when he created his mind-palace. It's age was evident by how poorly built the well was. A couple stones had fallen out of the wall, and moss and grown over some of the sides. It was a small well, constructed during his childhood, a time when hopes and dreams were most important to a child.

Sherlock could see a lot of his wishes rise from the well. Only the wishes that hadn't come true would stay in there. Very rarely did any of Sherlock's wishes come true and disappear from the depths of his well, so it was getting pretty crowded in there.

_I wish I could be a pirate._ He laughed.

_I wish that I had a friend. _That was a very old wish, one he developed as a six year old. Why had it remained? John was his friend… wasn't he? Therefore the wish must have come true, why was is still there?

Sherlock was puzzled by that wish, then moved past other wishes such as "I wish I could play in the school's violin recital." Another was "I wish Anderson would get fired already."

But after a long search, Sherlock couldn't find his feelings for John in the wishing well. He's have to go check the third floor of his mind-palace. It had to be hiding somewhere in there.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are!_

Sherlock run back into the mind-palace and climbed two staircases in order to get to the third floor. The possibilities up here were endless, he hadn't lost faith. Just before entering his reference library, he realized that he should check the master bedroom. He ran towards the east wing, turning every corner with that one location in mind. He felt like he was on to something, he felt close to finding what he was looking for.

Finally, he got to the door of his master bedroom. The door was made of pure gold and carved into beautiful decorative designs. Pushing open the heavy door, Sherlock stepped into the room. He could smell excitement in the air, something was definitely hiding here.

_How long had it been there?_

_How had it remained hidden so well?_

Sherlock stepped in front of the kingsized bed, he smoothed his palms over the blankets, looking for something, _anything_, to jump at his touch.

_Nothing was there. _

He looked under the pillows, but everything under there was unusual information, things that were unnecessary right now. With frustration, Sherlock kicked the bed, but then he heard a thump under the bed.

_Something was there._

Sherlock crouched down to look under the bed and saw something in the shadows there… He squinted his eyes to improve his vision, then reached in closer. There was a small box, just out of reach. He could see a lock attached to the opening of the box, reaching a little farther, he finally caught hold of the box.

_I found you!_

He slid the box closer, he pulled it out from under the bed. It was dusty, it had probably been there for about two years, almost three. He blew the dust away, sweeping the rest away with his fingers. Sherlock looked at the lock. It needed a key.

_Where would he find the key?_

He hadn't the faintest idea. Sherlock threw down the box in exasperation and frustration.

The mind-palace was gone. Sherlock was back in the smoke-filled bedroom of his basement.

_Why did he snap out of it? _

_What had brought him out of the mind-palace?_

Sherlock stood up from the bed, putting out the red glow at the end of his still smoking joint. Marijuana had helped a little, but he'd come out short.

_Where was the key to that box?_

There was a text alert sound coming from his left, he picked up his cell-phone to see the message. There was an address on the screen. It was from an unknown number. Sherlock smiled down at his phone in triumph.

_The assassin had taken the bait and was now leading Sherlock to his secret location. _

Sherlock felt a thrill rise in his chest as he threw down the phone and dressed up to leave the room. He'd leave everything here, only taking a gun, a GPS, and a small envelop of papers.

Taking a quick injection of cocaine, Sherlock threw his jacket on and ran up the stairs to the back exit. His pulse was racing again, he was breathing fast and his eyes were wide and ready. His game of "Hide and Go Seek" with the assassin was coming to a close. He'd find the bastard in no time.


	12. Ready

John felt like everything was happening so fast, like a dream. Just last night he had told Mary about Sherlock. Since that conversation they shared more than kisses and now John was thinking about a serious future with Mary. He told Harry about it later that morning, leaving out details from the bedroom, obviously. Harry was thrilled, she pulled John into another one of her infamous bone-crushing hugs, she was happy that John had taken a big step in his relationship with Mary. Harry could see the difference that Mary had made in his life, she could tell that John was happy, and telling Mary about his recent loss would help him in the grieving process. Harry's tea-making skills were improving, so she made him a cup and called Clara.

There seemed to be romance everywhere. John was in a serious relationship with Mary, and Harry was starting to see her ex, Clara, again. Now that Harry was making a serious effort to end her alcohol addiction, she seemed willing to try at love again. Both Watsons had seemed hopeless with love and romance in the past, but things seemed to be getting better.

The snow had melted and now it was April. Life with Mary seemed perfect, John had almost forgotten that he wanted to talk to Mycroft, about the assassins. He no longer saw danger everywhere, he no longer had the nightmares about guns, falling, blood, Sherlock. He even thought that he could move back to Baker Street soon, get out of Harry's way so that she could have privacy again. She'd like that, and maybe Mary would like Baker Street…

"John!" Harry called from the kitchen one evening a week later, "I'm going out with Clara, don't know when I'll be back!" John leaned against the threshold of the kitchen door with his hands in his pockets, "Okay, I won't be doing much tonight. Might go to Mary's."

Harry turned towards her brother and gave him a little spin in her evening dress. The skirt flared out when she moved and sparkled in the light. "Very nice," John said admiringly with a smirk. "Thanks, it's Clara's favourite." Harry blushed a little and smoothed her hands down her dress.

She stepped toward the threshold and kissed John on the cheek, "Be good, and don't go nosing around for anymore expensive wine, okay? I still don't forgive you about the last bottle you chugged," she laughed as she moved past him, John followed her to the front door. "Sorry about that, I don't know what came over me… I won't be doing it again though." Harry laughed again and slid her shoes on, "I hope not. Anyways, lock up behind me and don't wait up."

John nodded in agreement and waved her off as she drove down the dark street. As he locked the door, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. It didn't take long for him to find Mycroft's private number in his contacts list.

Now that John had sorted things with Mary, he would have to ask Mycroft about the assassins from the files. He wouldn't settle down with Mary until he knew that they would be completely safe. It only took a couple rings before John heard Mycroft sigh and greet John.

"Hello, John. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? I hope you are well?"

Mycroft sounded a little disinterested and preoccupied, but John was determined to get information from that prestigious bastard.

"I'm fine, Mycroft," he wanted to get to the point, "I was actually calling about some information you gave me last spring. About the assassins on Baker Street?" He waited to see if Mycroft would respond, but he only heard dead silence on the other side of the line, there was a faint breathing sound but nothing else. "Mycroft?" John called into the receiver, he was starting to feel a little nervous by Mycroft's reaction. Mycroft usually didn't do this, there had always been instant replies so that he could end the phone conversations and get back to whatever he was doing before.

John was about to try speaking again, but Mycroft finally spoke, "Yes… What about them?" Mycroft didn't say anymore, his returning question was quick and sharp. "Uh… I've been feeling really uneasy lately… As if someone's watching me. It's probably nothing, but I wasn't sure if you knew about the remaining assassins. Is there a possibility that they are after me now? And what about Moriarty?" John ran his hand through his hair and sat on the sofa. He was starting to feel really nervous about Mycroft's long silences.

_Mycroft always had an answer._

_To everything._

_Why not now?_

There was a shuffling of papers on Mycroft's side of the line, he seemed shaken and unsure of how to respond. Did that mean that the assassins were after John?

John started to get frustrated, "Listen, Mycroft, you told me that I can trust you, that I'm going to be safe. You told me that you had everything sorted, so why aren't you telling me anything? What are you hiding? I'm not just worried about my own safety here, what about Mrs. Hudson, and my sister, Harry?" John paused, "I'm with a woman now… Mary Morstan… I want to be with her, I want to move back to Baker Street with her, and I want to propose to her, but I can't endanger her or any of the people around me, I _won't_.

"So tell me now, tell me what I need to know, Mycroft. Or so help me I will seek everything out myself. I'll leave my safe little bubble and endanger my own safety to protect the others. I'm not going to take anymore of your guessing games, your tricks, I'm not going to sit on my ass and wait for trouble to find the people I love. It's happened before…"

_Sherlock._

"Please, tell me if I'm in danger, _now_. If so, tell me what to do. Just… _talk_ to me, Mycroft!" John was standing again, his left hand clutched at the phone, his right hand was in a tight fist. John didn't care if danger was after him as much as he cared about the other people he'd be endangering. He couldn't risk Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Harry.

"John…" Mycroft spoke calmly, "I'd hold off the proposal if I were you. I cannot say that you are in danger, or that the others are in danger. I can tell you with ease that you are safe in your current destination, but don't make any commitments that you might have to break." Now it was John's turn to be silent.

Of course John felt a little better knowing that he was safe… but was he really? Was Mycroft covering something up? He tended to do that, keep people in the dark. He especially loved keeping John in the dark. John had so much more to say, so many more questions to ask Mycroft. But before he could say another word, he hung up.

Maybe he shouldn't have moved so fast with Mary. This wasn't good. If Mycroft wanted John to break up with her, there had to be something wrong. _Something was threatening to put Mary in danger, and John didn't want that._

_John had known that Sherlock was in trouble._

_John had tried to save Sherlock, but it was too late._

_He lost Sherlock._

_Now there was the possibility that he could lose Mary._

_John still didn't know about the assassins._

_But he had a feeling that there was danger close by._

Without a second thought, he walked to his room and looked at his suitcase. It was so empty, vacant. He'd have to fill it up again, he'd have to go back to Baker Street. There was no time to play games now, John had to look for as much information as he could. He needed to find that file about the assassins back at the flat. He needed to find a way to stop anyone from taking away the people he loved.

After throwing his small collection of belongings into the suitcase, he pulled it to the door, leaving it beside the coat rack. John left Harry's house, locking the door behind him and walking into the cool early-spring weather. It was late, the puddles from recent rain left wet stains on the bottoms of his jeans. John got to Mary's door and she let him in.

John told her about his suspicions, how they could be in trouble. Mary listened to him, tight lipped and nervous. John didn't want her to come with him anymore, he could be getting her into more danger. Mary should stay here. But before he could stop her, she was packing her own suitcase, determined to go to Baker Street with him.

"John, I'm not going to let you walk into danger like this. I want to help you, we can find everything we need together. I understand the dangers in our way, I know the risks. I'm not going to let you face them alone, we're a couple, a partnership. I'm staying with you!" John stood by her bedroom door, speechless. He watched her pick out what she needed, she was quick and efficient.

John tried to convince himself that having Mary with him would be better, he could keep her safe, with him. Mycroft had said that John was safe, that everything was fine. But why had he seemed so unsure? John _wasn't_ stupid. They'd stay at Baker Street for now, John was ready to go back. Mary would help the transition become easier.

They would take their time, there was no rush. John would look for all the information he could get his hands on, Mary would help him. Mycroft had cameras everywhere, he'd know that John was back at the flat before Mrs. Hudson would. _This could work out. _

_It could. _

_It would. _

_It had to._

"Let's go," Mary smiled at John, some of the nervousness was gone from her eyes. He took her suitcase and they went back to Harry's house, next door. John wrote a quick note to Harry, leaving it on the kitchen counter.

_I'm going back to Baker Street, Mary's with me. Thank you for helping me out. If you need me, just call. I'll answer my phone. There's a check under this note. Keep the money, consider it pay back for the expensive bottle of wine I drank awhile ago._

_Love, John._

"Okay, my suitcase is at the door, did you call a cab?" John turned to Mary, she was looking at her phone. "Yes, I also called my mum and let her know. She's going to watch my house for me." John had forgotten that Mary would be leaving her house behind, empty. He felt a little guilty for having her come along in a rush like this, but then remembered that this was what Mary wanted.

_They'd have a new life together._

_He'd keep her safe._

_He wasn't going to let Mary fall through his fingers._

_Not like Sher-_

"The cab's here, John. Come on." She stood by the door with her suitcase. John followed her, locking the door behind them and packing their suitcases in the boot of the cab. John opened the door for Mary, letting her in first. John sat beside her, he held her hand.

"Take us to 221B Baker Street."


	13. A Trail of Bread Crumbs

It was the thrill of the chase that made Sherlock feel alive again. Not just metaphorically, but physically. Though it was a rather strange way to describe it since Sherlock was still considered dead to the general public.

Here he was, running through the streets of London. There was cool air rushing over his face, his coat billowing out behind him. Heart beat and breathing were rapid, he felt like he might burst with all the vitality. There was a buzz in his pocket, probably a text from Mycroft. Sherlock didn't let anything cloud his mind, he was ready to catch and kill the first major assassin.

_There wasn't room for thoughts of John._

_He wouldn't think about John's new relationship, possible engagement. _

_He wouldn't think about Mary Morstan._

_He wouldn't think about the development of his own feelings towards John._

_He wouldn't think about the box under his mind-palace bed and the missing key._

_But where would that key be hiding?_

_Wait- he had a clear mind. He wasn't thinking about John and the little box of feelings._

There was time for feelings after this game was over. Already, this had continued for almost a complete year after Sherlock's suicide. When the world thought that all was done between Sherlock and Moriarty, they had no idea that Sherlock was just getting started.

Moriarty might have really killed himself on the hospital roof, and Sherlock might have "killed" himself in a way for the world to see, but Moriarty wasn't going to play fair. _That_ was why Sherlock had to stay alive, as silly as it sounded.

_Stayin' Alive._

If Sherlock could destroy Moriarty's last secret weapon, Moriarty's last stroke against him, Sherlock could live freely.

Moriarty still planned on killing Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson… John. Even if Sherlock was dead, of course he wouldn't make it obvious. He'd have his employees wait in the shadows until the time was right. If Sherlock could take them down, one by one, Moriarty's last assault would be a failure, and Sherlock would win the game.

_Only it wasn't a game… not anymore._

Once, he had threatened to take John's life, long before the final problem. When he strapped the bomb to John's chest, showed Sherlock what he was capable of doing.

_Owning Sherlock._

_Making him dance like a puppet._

_Showing Sherlock that with the pull of a trigger, Sherlock's world would disappear before his own eyes._

_Moriarty would claim John Watson as his own._

_And Sherlock wouldn't take that._

_He'd fight for John._

_To the bitter end._

Sherlock felt anger course through him as he thought about that night at the pool. John scared him so much. It was in that moment that Sherlock realized that Moriarty was only doing this for him, not to terrorize London. He only wanted to destroy Sherlock, burn the heart out of him. It was fun to watch people suffer, he was bored of staying alive. And Moriarty found it touching to see the pure agony and fear in Sherlock's eyes as he realized that John was his greatest weapon.

_When did Moriarty find out?_

_How?_

_Had he been spying on them together, had he seen their connection?_

_What made Moriarty decide that he'd use John as a weapon?_

Sherlock couldn't think about this now. He'd probably never find out. Moriarty was full of secrets, and he killed all those secrets when he sent a bullet through his brain on the roof of St. Bart's. Sherlock's eyes scanned every surface, every object in his vision. He was so close to finding the first assassin.

So close that he could almost taste the victory on his tongue.

_It was metallic._

_Poisonous._

_Something that he shouldn't be enjoying this much._

_After all, he was going to kill a man._

_The thrill of the chase…_

_That was what he missed most._

Sherlock had been running through the vacant alleyways and side-streets for a few hours now, it was past midnight. He could feel fatigue beginning to pull at the muscles in his legs, he could really use another dose of cocaine right now…

His mouth watered for the taste of tobacco, marijuana, _anything_. He needed his fix, something to give him that last burst of energy before the kill. He realized that this had been the reason he quit drugs in the first place, his dependancy on drugs was worse than his natural bodily needs for sleep and food. Food slowed him down, but drugs drained him. And in this moment, the fatigue was the _last_ thing he needed.

Within a couple minutes, he was just outside the warehouse. It was a large building, high glass windows, and a sturdy structure of cement and brick. It stank of mold and cardboard, the air felt heavy and tasted stale. It probably hadn't been used in years, from the looks of it's contents, it was an abandoned warehouse that stored recycled paper and cardboard for packaging. Sherlock held onto his gun and stepped into the dark building. A shiver ran through him, even though the weather was getting warmer. With his heart racing, he wove his way around the piles of boxes and crates, looking for the destination where his assassin was hiding. Sherlock had hoped that the assassin wouldn't be expecting him, but there was always the possibility that he was watching Sherlock, waiting for the right moment to pull his own trigger.

He didn't dare take out his torch, it would draw attention toward his destination in the warehouse. Another buzz sounded from his coat pocket and Sherlock ignored it again. Mycroft would be extremely angry at him for ignoring the texts. They hadn't discussed this part of the plan, Sherlock had just gone ahead without a second thought.

The groaning of a doorway sounded from the second level of the warehouse, Sherlock's head snapped up toward the noise, listening closely for any other sounds or movement. His hand was feeling clammy against the cool metal of the gun, he gripped onto it with more strength, as much as he could muster.

A thud came from the same area of the second floor, Sherlock would have to find a ladder or a stairwell in order to get up there. It was so dark though, so hard to find his way around the maze of crates and boxes.

Another buzz came from his pocket, Sherlock was tempted to throw the damned phone onto the hard concrete floor. Taking a few more steps, he noticed a crunching sound beneath his shoes. Crouching down to the ground, he examined the source of the noise, bread crumbs.

Taking his phone out of his pocket and ignoring the messages on the screen, he used the dim light to examine a path of bread crumbs, as if it was going to lead Sherlock to the assassin.

_Was it a dare, a trick?_

_Should the bread crumbs be ignored, or was it another message from Moriarty?_

There wasn't any point in ignoring it now, if he was going to find the assassin, he'd have to follow the path. Take the risk.

He took out his torch, there wasn't any point of hiding himself anymore, the assassin knew he was here. The stranger wasn't a coward, he wasn't going to hide. He left this trail for Sherlock as an invitation, he wasn't going to go down without a proper fight. Guns were too quick for this man, there was a strong possibility that Sherlock would have to fight him with his fists.

_His strength._

A feeling of dread washed over Sherlock, maybe he'd just skip the introductions and kill the man on the spot. He didn't have time for a test of physical strength, in fact, he didn't have the strength _at all_.

Again, he was regretting the drugs, wishing that he'd found a better way to sort himself out, something that was better for brainwork. Decisions would have to wait for later, he followed the path towards a ladder against the far wall. Freeing his hands and stretching the tendons, he put both gloved hands onto the bars of the ladder. He gripped onto the cold metal, testing his strength.

_He'd be fine._

_He had to be fine._

Sherlock took careful steps up the ladder, his eyes had adjusted to the dark warehouse enough to see his surroundings in the dim light. It wasn't a far distance to the second floor, but he worried about what he would find at the top.

He carefully peered onto the ground of the second floor, no one was there. There was another bread crumb path for him to follow toward a partly opened door, only a few metres away. Bringing his legs up onto the ground, he stood and looked at the doorway. It glared at him, daring him to enter.

Sherlock walked towards the door carefully, his gun was held firmly in his right hand. Heart rate was speeding even more now.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

_This was one step closer to John._

He blinked his eyes as he put a hand to the wooden surface in front of him, he was ready. Pushing the door out of his way, he pulled his gun to eye level, his eyes moved over every surface in the small abandoned office room.

Papers were littered on the floor.

The windows were open.

Air blew in a made some of the papers tumble towards him.

There was no other movement.

Sherlock was on edge, ready.

Something caught his eye, something attached to the wall. Sherlock kept a firm hold on the gun and glided toward to wall opposite. Getting closer, he could see that there was a torn page pinned to the wall. In bold font it said:

**_Little Snow White_**

His eyes widened as he understood. He could remember the copy of "Grimm's Fairy Tales" that he kept in his bedroom after finding it at that crime scene last year. The book was in a envelop, a red wax seal attached to the flap. The book inside became Sherlock's greatest weapon in solving Moriarty's riddles. This was a page from the same edition.

_I_

_Iodine_

_53_

_Little Snow White._

Sherlock tore the page from the wall, holding it up to see it more clearly, something was inscribed near the bottom of the-

_There was a sound behind him._

Without a moments hesitation, Sherlock turned around and shot at the shadowy figure.

_He missed_.

The shadow came at him before he could respond with another try at the gun. He was on the floor. The air was knocked out of his lungs, he saw stars. The shadowed figure was above him, pinning him to the ground.

_It was the assassin._

_Lestrade's assassin._

Papers crunched beneath his body. Panic and adrenaline flooded through his system. It replaced the cocaine, the energy was instant. Sherlock threw a punch, a kick, he hit the man in all the vital areas that he could reach.

_He was losing his focus, his strength._

_This was more difficult than he remembered._

No words were exchanged between the two enemies, only grunts and hits and was blood in Sherlock's mouth, he couldn't see properly.

_The man above him was smiling._

_He thought that he had beaten Sherlock._

With a last rush of energy, Sherlock pulled the gun to his enemy's chest, right over the man's living, beating heart. Before the assassin could register the cold pressure or respond, Sherlock pulled the trigger. He felt the full weight of the dead man fall onto his body. He was stuck, he couldn't move, he felt blood soak into his chest, through his clothing.

With as much energy he could muster, he pushed the dead weight off of his chest, trying to breath.

_Remember how to breath._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Sherlock felt so weak, he was drifting. He didn't know where he was drifting. But he felt his eyelids grow heavy as he looked at the effect that the moonlight from the window had on the desk beside him, the papers on the floor continued to tumble around him and the body of the assassin. There was red splotches on some of the pages now, his arm fell to his side and he reached for the page that he had plucked from the wall before the attack.

_Little Snow White._

_One man down._

He felt his breathing begin to slow, his heart rate was irregular, the pauses between beats became longer and longer.

_Everything was slow._

He closed his eyes, felt air escape his lungs and his body sag against the floor.

_ Please come back._

_I will John, I will._

_ I can't sleep._

_I don't want to sleep, don't let me go, John._

_ I don't want to forget you._

_I will never forget you._

..._ John._

**End of Part One**


	14. Really Home

**Beginning of** **Part Two**

_This was it._

_There was no turning back._

John held onto Mary's hand, he breathed steadily as he looked out the cab window. The familiar road was coming into view. His heart was beating swiftly, he wondered if Mary could feel how fast his pulse was.

_This is Baker Street._

_I'm coming home._

_This is actually happening._

The cab came to a slow stop in front of _Speedy's_, right beside was a large door with _221_ in gold lettering. Nothing was different. Nothing seemed to change during the time that John had been away.

_Had it already been almost a year?_

John swallowed the thick lump in his throat, Mary was waiting for him to exit the cab. The driver looked disinterested, and a little impatient. Gripping the cool handle of the car door, John pushed it open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Mary stepped out right behind him, she held onto his shoulder.

_I can do this._

Looking back at Mary, John smiled. Having her with him was going to make this a lot easier. She returned a bright smile, the street lamps reflected against her hair and turned it to gold. Breaking the gaze, Mary was the one to open the boot of the cab and begin to take out their luggage. John took both suitcases from her as she paid the cabby.

It was very late by now, almost mid-night. They had left Harry's a little after sundown and the drive had been a little longer than expected. But John was relieved that they could quickly settle in and sleep before completely assessing the flat. John looked for his keys, they had to be somewhere. But before he looked through his bags, Mrs. Hudson was at the door to greet them. Shock was evident by her expression.

"Hello, John!" she began after recovering. She clutched her dressing gown over her body, feeling exposed in the open doorway. There was a brief silence before Mrs. Hudson continued, "Come in, come in! You must be Mary Morstan," Mrs. Hudson looked at Mary, all smiles and kindness. Mary shook her hand to return the greeting, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson. John has told me all about you!" John admired the kindness in Mary's greeting, he knew that they would get along fine.

"I hope those were _good _things that he's told you," They both laughed, John just smiled at the two of them and felt pride overwhelm him. If Mrs. Hudson approved of Mary this quickly, things would go well. Mrs. Hudson had had a knack at approving or disproving John's past girlfriends. If Mrs. Hudson had a bad feeling about someone, John trusted her, he'd break off the relationship. John looked up to her as a second mother, and he valued her opinion over any other woman.

John looked into the entrance as Mrs. Hudson and Mary held a nice conversation in the doorway. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. It felt as if John had never left. This place was so unique and familiar, it smelled of tea and biscuits.

_This was home._

"How about we have some tea. I have water on the boil, we could have a chat before you settle in. I know it's late, but pleasant surprises don't come to my door everyday." The couple followed Mrs. Hudson inside, leaving their luggage by the stairs and following her into her little kitchen.

The kettle was whistling, the room was warm from the steam and the hot element from the stove. John and Mary settled down in chairs at her little table and shed their coats from their shoulders. John patted Mary's hand and she smiled back at him in return. She liked Mrs. Hudson, he could see it in her expression. John watched as Mary looked at her surroundings, she was taking everything in, memorizing it.

"There now," Mrs. Hudson brought tea cups and tea bags and placed it on the table before them. Pouring the water into their cups, she asked Mary about herself. As their tea steeped, Mary told Mrs. Hudson about working as a tutor at a small school near her house. Mrs. Hudson asked about the children she worked with and Mary obliged, already comfortable with her new acquaintance. Mary then mentioned her love for gardening, something that Mrs. Hudson was pleased to hear. Mrs. Hudson beamed and mentioned that she had a garden out back, that Mary could assist her in caring for during the warmer months. Then Mrs. Hudson asked about how John and Mary met. Mary told the story with a little of John's help. It started on Mary's front lawn, that cool late-autumn morning. They spoke about having tea at Mary's house, the daily visits, the walks through the park.

Mrs. Hudson loved the story, she watched Mary give the recollection, but shared small glances with John from time to time. She gave John a look that said "I'm so happy for you." And John smiled back at her in return, still holding Mary's hand.

Before long, it was almost midnight. Mrs. Hudson glanced at the clock and quickly started putting away dishes, dumping the leftover tea in the sink. Mary and John helped her clean up the kitchen and then parted with her for the night.

Going up the stairs to John's old flat, Mary moved closer to him. "Mrs. Hudson really is a lovely woman, I can see why you love her so much. I feel bad that she's been on her own so long."

"Yeah, I didn't realize how much I missed her until she brought us in. Though I feel bad that we came here so late. She's probably exhausted." John pulled the luggage up another step and left them at the top of the stairs. Pulling out his key, he unlocked the door to the sitting room. Mary stepped inside, looking around her. John came behind her, feeling weary about the memories and emotions that this place would stir up inside him. Mary gave him a reassuring look and pulled onto his left arm.

The only light that came into the room was from the two windows across from them. The light from the street cascaded over each surface. The sofa and armchairs, the table, the floor. John could see the yellow smiley face on the right wall, there was still a few bullets lodged into it, tearing at the wallpaper. Mary didn't say anything, she knew that John would need some time.

_This wasn't easy, of course it wasn't. _

John breathed a shaky sigh, he bit onto his lower lip and tried not to express the conflicting emotions inside.

_Sadness._

_Relief._

_Anger._

_Guilt._

_Rage._

He tried to keep it all inside, he wanted to tell Mary that he needed to be alone.

_He needed space. _

_But he needed her. _

_The more that John wanted to push her away…_

_The more he wanted to hold onto her. _

Mary seemed to understand, she held onto him, her face somber and patient. John ignored the flood of memories and emotions as he looked at Mary.

_Mary was his future._

_Not Sherlock._

_It was time to face this._

_To move on._

_Live life._

_Sherlock was gone._

_He wasn't coming back._

"John, I'll take the luggage to our room… Where is it?" She was still patient in her tone, understanding. John was thankful for that.

"Upstairs, it's an attic room. I'm fine now… let me help you." John took a last lingering look at the sitting room and the took their luggage towards the staircase. Mary helped him up the stairs, his limp had gotten worse again, so he leaned onto her and the railing for support.

When they got to the top, John stumbled towards his old bedroom door and slowly opened it. Mary rolled their luggage into the small room, revelling at the ordinariness of it, it's simplicity.

John hadn't left much behind here. A few papers and news articles were still in his drawer, collecting dust. He pulled onto the chain from the old lamp and a dim light brightened the room. Mary sat at the edge of the bed, she watched John as he took in every corner, every surface. Everything had remained the same here too.

_Why had he expected it to be different? _

_Why had nothing changed here?_

He sat at the edge of the mattress beside Mary, he could feel the warmth from her body against him. He wanted to lean on her, cry into her shoulder, but John wasn't one to cry.

_He couldn't. _

_He wouldn't._

Mary pulled her arms around him, held him close. She didn't say anything, she wouldn't make it worse for him.

_John needed this. _

_He needed her beside him, holding him. _

_He needed silence. _

_He needed to let everything go._

"Thank you," his voice was rough, it was worn, tired. Mary kissed the skin beside his mouth, a chaste kiss. He felt a sob shake him and he closed his eyes.

_He felt the barriers break down._

_He couldn't breath._

_Couldn't think._

_He missed Sherlock._

_He needed Sherlock to come back._

_He wanted Sherlock to be alive again._

_Why didn't he save him before…_

_He'd stand beside Sherlock, on that roof, if he could._

_He'd hold his hand, who cares what people would say._

_He'd have given Sherlock a reason to stay._

_But what was that reason?_

_Why did he want Sherlock to stay?_

_…_

_Because he loved him._


	15. Air in Lungs

"Sherlock!" The voice was so far away, so distant. Sherlock didn't want to move, he _couldn't_ move. He tried to open his eyes, lift his hand, speak,_ anything_. But nothing was working.

_John._

_I'm over here._

_Please find me._

_I'm afraid…_

_Fear, like sentiment, was one of his worse enemies._

_Both were weaknesses._

_Sherlock hated weakness._

"Sherlock!" John called again, Sherlock could hear his heavy footsteps coming closer. So much closer, yet still so far away. Sherlock felt so vulnerable, glued to a cold floor strewn with papers and blood.

_What had happened?_

_Why was it so dark, so cold?_

There was another body to his right, there seemed to be much more blood surrounding it. Sherlock could open his eyes now, he could look at his surroundings, but everything seemed so shaky that he couldn't trust his senses. His mind was cloudy, it felt like a very painful and realistic dream.

_Why was he here?_

_He couldn't remember. _

_But there had to be a reason. _

Sherlock tried to open his mouth, breath, say something. He tried to inhale, exhale.

_John was his oxygen._

_But he didn't have John anymore._

_So was he dying?_

He couldn't muster the air to laugh, but he wanted to laugh. It all seemed so funny. There was no reasonable way that John could be his oxygen. It was impossible. John was a living, breathing human. He wasn't an element.

All of this felt like a repeat of earlier thoughts. How long ago was it? When had Sherlock used that same metaphor? It seemed like a lifetime ago. A time when his loneliness was still fresh in his mind, new. Sherlock had aged so much since then, so much had happened…

_That's right!_

_The assassin!_

_Sherlock was here because of the assassin._

_Was the man dead?_

_Did Sherlock kill him?_

_Was Sherlock dead?_

Sherlock hated having questions. They made him feel like an invalid, someone without the ability to understand, to reason. Almost everything had always made sense to Sherlock.

_Except John._

_John._

"John," he managed to whisper, his voice was rough, he could hardly hear it. It sounded far away, even to his own ears. The crumpled papers beneath his body were so soft, almost fluid.

_This wasn't real._

_It couldn't be._

_Something was… off._

"John," he whispered again, his heart rate started to speed up again, he felt the drying blood on his shirt cling to his skin. He groped at the ground, he couldn't hear the papers crinkle between his fingers, he couldn't hear anything except his rapid breathing.

_John._

He felt a sob rise in his throat, tears obscured his vision. But he finally saw a figure run towards him. He tired to reach for John, he wanted to know that John was real.

"John!" he tried to speak louder, but he couldn't hear his own voice. John looked so worried, so… aged. He had something in his hand, Sherlock couldn't see it.

_What was John holding?_

Sherlock could feel his body being lifted from the ground, he was a dead weight. He couldn't feel his legs and his arms had grown limp at his sides. John was holding him to his chest, Sherlock felt John's warm breath cool his forehead.

_Oxygen._

_John was his oxygen. _

He didn't want to laugh when he thought of it this time, it wasn't funny. John really was his oxygen. He needed oxygen to survive. Sherlock had been deprived for so long, and in this moment, John was holding him. John was his saviour, his guardian angel. A sort of glow blurred the lines of John's face, his hair, the creases in his jacket.

Sherlock felt his hand grip at John's jacket, testing the strength in his individual muscles, tendons, and joints. He held on so tight, he didn't want to let go.

_How long would John stay with him?_

_How long would Sherlock have his oxygen?_

John looked into his eyes, there was a seriousness there, something that told Sherlock that he had something important to say or do. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes locked with John's, but his body was protesting, trying to pull him away. John seemed to know that their time was limited. He seemed to sense that Sherlock wouldn't linger for much longer. Without a moments hesitation, John pulled his closed fist to Sherlock's chest, just over his still-beating heart.

Sherlock tried to watch, tried to hold on. He held onto John's jacket with as much energy as he could muster. John opened his fist against the spot where the assassin's blood had dried to Sherlock's clothes.

He could feel the warmth from John's palm against his chest, he could feel something cold and heavy in John's palm, it brought on curiosity, relief, and agony.

_This was it._

_Sherlock had seconds._

_Maybe less._

"John," he whispered against John's chest, still holding onto his jacket. His hand moved away from Sherlock's chest and in it's place was a shiny sliver key. Sherlock didn't know what it could mean, it distracted him from what he had wanted to say to John.

_Seconds._

_Milliseconds._

"John… I love-"

_Time was up._

"-you," Sherlock rasped, his voice raw and weak. It took a second for Sherlock to feel the shift of location and time. His eyes shot open with amazing speed.

_He wasn't in the warehouse anymore._

_He wasn't on a floor with paper scattered around him._

_It wasn't dark, or cold._

Sherlock breathed.

_He had oxygen._

_It didn't make sense._

_Where was he?_

Testing his limbs, Sherlock laid the palms of his hands beneath him.

_Cotton._

_Warm._

_Soft._

_Padded._

_A mattress._

Sherlock supported his torso by pushing down on the mattress with his hands. He sat up, feeling the muscles in his arms and chest respond with pain. Leaning back on the pillows behind him, he grimaced and looked around him.

This place seemed familiar, but he couldn't figure it out. He'd probably deleted it from his memory long ago. Might have been unimportant, or accompanied by bitter memories.

_It was probably the second option._

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door near the foot of the bed. Sherlock felt fear wash over him as he glared at the door. He recognized the knocking pattern.

_Mycroft._

Without waiting for a reply or answer, Mycroft strolled into the room, a naughty smirk on his face.

_Sherlock hated that expression._

_It meant that Mycroft had won and Sherlock had lost._

_It meant that bragging was in order._

_It meant that Mycroft was as much of a dick as he ever was._

"Good afternoon, little brother," Mycroft sat in a chair at the foot of the bed. He crossed his legs and laid his hands in his lap.

_Back straight._

_Nose in the air._

_Gleam in his eyes._

_Mycroft was definitely here to scold Sherlock, and then brag._

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, he slumped down on the bed as if he was a child still, ready for his scolding. Yet, at the same time, ready for anything that Mycroft had to say. Nothing would come as a surprise anymore.

_Except this mysterious location, of course._

"How was your rest, Sherlock? I hope you slept soundly?" Sherlock didn't want to answer, the result of his rest would be evident in his face, his body language. Mycroft knew how to read Sherlock as if he were a favourite book.

_Mycroft knew everything._

Sherlock glared, biting his lip. He didn't know what to say to Mycroft, he could sense the oddness of this situation.

Sherlock was in a bedroom.

_Who's bedroom?_

_Who's home?_

The last memory that he could come up with was being on the ground in that warehouse.

_He didn't die there._

_He survived… _

Mycroft looked at Sherlock impatiently, waiting for a reply. Behind that knowing smile was anger. Sherlock was sure of it.

"What happened, Mycroft?" There was no point in prolonging the conversation, Sherlock wanted to know what happened in that warehouse, he wanted to know how much of it was real. The part with John _had_ to be imagined.

Mycroft sighed and shifted in his chair, disappointment seemed to cross his features. "Well, a _lot_ happened. Where do I start, Sherlock? Why did you leave for the assassin without contacting me?"

Sherlock had hoped that his brother would leave the questions for later, but Mycroft was losing his patience, and Sherlock wasn't about to try starting another war.

"I don't know. I understand that it was wrong of me, I _know_ the danger that I put myself in…" Sherlock looked down at his bruised arms, the rest of him was covered in warm blankets and gauze, but he could feel the burn of more wounds over almost every surface of his skin. "But I _had_ to do it. I _had_ to leave. I couldn't stay in that little room any longer. I had to do something before I destroyed myself."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock with a touch of pity. Mycroft could see the inner-battle that he was fighting. He could see it through both Sherlock's physical and mental state. The drugs had nearly killed him.

"I see," Mycroft looked down at his feet, away from Sherlock, as if to preserve his thoughts and feelings from Sherlock's abilities. But it wasn't nearly that easy, Mycroft knew because he shared those abilities of deduction too. "Well, I suppose I should tell you what happened while you were gallivanting around the dangerous side of London.

"We had increased surveillance on you, it was for your protection. And when you left the basement that night, we saw right away. I knew where you would be going, we had tracked that same location for the assassin before. But you shouldn't have done it, Sherlock. We weren't even _nearly_ ready for the troubles to come in that abandoned warehouse. So I texted you, quite a few times, actually. I had warned you before but you have always enjoyed ignoring my orders, this wasn't any different." Sherlock listened to Mycroft's words, his sentences seemed so choppy, odd. Unlike Mycroft. "The assassin knew you were coming, they were planning on killing you while you were still stumbling around the warehouse. We found his tracks, he was a snipper, so it was easy enough for him to watch you."

Sherlock balled his fists, he could feel his short finger nails dig into the skin on his palms. He tried to remember back to that night. Hearing Mycroft retell the event was helping things come back to the surface of Sherlock's brain. Though it was clouded, Sherlock could feel reality shift back into place. The "memory" of John and the silver key began to fade and disappear from his mind.

_No. Don't do this._

_John._

_Come back._

He tried not to breath shakily, but everything seemed unstable. Sherlock tried to hold onto the thought of John.

_His eyes._

_The lines on his skin._

_The warmth of his palm against Sherlock's chest._

_The jacket, how tightly Sherlock held on._

Sherlock had no idea what Mycroft was saying now, maybe Mycroft wasn't even speaking. Maybe Mycroft was watching Sherlock, waiting for him to steady his heart rate and breathing, waiting for Sherlock to unclench his fists and relax his jaw.

"I can't forget. I won't forget." Sherlock could see John so clearly behind his eyelids, still preserved in his mind.

_Memories of what happens in dreams don't tend to linger or remain._

_Unless they are memorable enough._

_So why was it so hard to hold onto the memory of John's face, his warmth, his voice?_

"Sherlock!" said a voice directly beside Sherlock's left ear, it almost echoed, calling him back to the surface, back to reality.

_I don't want to forget you._

Sherlock's eyes shot open, still bleary and unfocused. He felt the strong grasp of Mycroft's hands gripping his shoulders. Sherlock felt a wave of fear rush through him, he wanted to hold onto Mycroft, cry on his shoulder like a child awoken from a nightmare. He wanted to tell Mycroft about the visions and memories, clashing together in a battle to the death. Everything that was supposed to matter was beginning to break away and fall from his chest. Large lumps of rotten flesh seemed to be seeping from his ribcage, and fall from where his lungs and heart used to be.

_Vital organs._

_Fatal._

Finally, Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, there was fear in his eyes too. Fear in both of their eyes. And fear had always been something easy to hide for the Holmes boys. It was very difficult for their minds to take over their bodies, but in this moment they had both become vulnerable and weak.

_Easy to destroy. _

_But they wouldn't destroy each other, would they?_

_No._

_They needed to work together. _

_That had been the point of this whole operation, right?_

_To do this together._

"Mycroft, I killed him, didn't I? That wasn't imagined. I put a bullet in his chest and killed him." Sherlock bit onto his lower lip, trying to steady himself. Mycroft loosened his grip on Sherlock's shoulders and began to step away, composing himself. "Yes, you did. Very lucky that you did, too. If you hadn't killed him, it would have been another missed opportunity, and you wouldn't have been alive right now."

Sherlock tried to ignore the scolding tone in Mycroft's voice and focused on the reality of the events from the abandoned warehouse.

_The first assassin was dead._

_One down._

_Two to go._

_Lestrade was safe now._  
"Good," was all that Sherlock said, leaning back onto a pillow and closing his eyes. Mycroft told Sherlock to rest, more would be explained as soon as he was well again. After all, Sherlock still ached with bruises and gashes in his skin. He began to start breathing freely.

_Oxygen._

_The life-supporting component of air._

_Colourless._

_Odourless._

_Forms about 20 percent of the earth's atmosphere._

_The most abundant element in the earth's crust._

_Mainly in the form of oxides, silicates, and carbonates._

_From the french word oxygene, meaning "Acidifying constituent". _

_Air in lungs._

_John._

_One step closer to John._


	16. Overwhelmed

"John."

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"John."

"Yes, what is it?"

…

"Open your eyes."

John opened his eyes against his own wishes. But all that he could see was light. Bright, brilliant light.

_Where was Sherlock?_

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"Beside you."

John turned to see the tall, dark form of Sherlock Holmes. John had to squint his eyes because the light surrounding them was blinding. Yet he still tried to memorize every detail of his dead friend's face.

_What colour were his eyes, again?_

_Blue?_

_Green?_

_Grey?_

"Does it matter?" Sherlock asked quietly, raising an eyebrow.

John was taken aback, Sherlock had just responded to his thoughts. John hadn't known that Sherlock's deductive abilities extended that far. Had Sherlock always been able to read John mind?

_He bloody-well-hoped not._

_That would have been disastrous._

"Why, John?" Again, he was reading John's thoughts.

"Let me see your eyes," John said, changing the subject. He pulled Sherlock's face down towards his own, examining the irises of his eyes. Trying the define the colour.

"How often does your eye colour change?"

"I don't know."

John pulled away from their close distance, he smirked at Sherlock as if he had just called himself an idiot. "But I thought you knew _everything_?"

"Almost everything. I have no knowledge of literature, philosophy, and astronomy as you have pointed out before. But why would that matter?"

John laughed and looked down at his feet, " You _are_ an idiot."

Sherlock closed his mouth and grinned back at him, there was something in his eyes that John couldn't label.

_Love._

_That was it._

So John returned the smile and looked back at Sherlock with an intimacy that he didn't know they could possess.

It was so tempting, to lean in. To taste those full lips, watch his eyes change colour in the brightness of this… space.

"You should… you know." Sherlock said, looking down at John lips and back into his eyes. John felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, unbelievably fast.

He could almost feel his pupils dilate.

_Was that even possible?_

"How long have you known?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead he sighed and closed his eyes as if he was being tortured with questions he didn't know the answers to…

_But… maybe?_

_Maybe he didn't know._

_Had they both been in the dark before?_

As ironic as it was to their current situation, maybe during the slow progress through time… they had learned to love each other in a way that they didn't see possible or probable before.

_This was the moment they were sharing in order to realize those feelings._

_Profess it._

_Their love-_

_This sounded so stupid. Too sentimental. _

_So unlike them._

"John. Stop thinking so much."

"Why?"

"Because you shouldn't overanalyze some things… You should just let them happen."

"That's rich, coming from you."

_Silence. _

Sherlock still had his eyes closed, as if in concentration.

"Fine, then." John pulled onto Sherlock's coat collar, bringing the man towards him. Sherlock's eyes were open now, he looked shocked, surprised, worried.

Before Sherlock could say anything, John pulled their faces together. John wasn't as gentle as he could have been, he brought Sherlock's lips to his own with bruising force. Sherlock responded, putting his arms around John with a softness that was very much unlike himself. John's breathing was shaky with each break of the kiss, he held onto Sherlock's face in his hands, rubbed his thumbs along Sherlock's cheekbones. He felt Sherlock taste him, run his tongue along John's lips, then his teeth. The sensation was unlike anything that John had felt before, for anyone.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

He wanted to say it. He had suppressed it for so long. Told himself that it wasn't true. But he wanted to believe it now. He hands moved into Sherlock's hair and tightened onto the soft curls, it anchored John down, kept him here. _Grounded._

Sherlock licked his own lips and pulled away to look into John's eyes. There was definitely love there, in that look.

_John drowned in it. _

_Love._

He felt himself become weak in Sherlock's arms. He was heavy, falling. But Sherlock was falling with him. Everything was so bright, unreal. John held onto him with all the strength he could muster. The falling sensation wasn't going away, it was thrilling and frightening.

_All falls are fatal it seems._

_And this was a different kind of falling._

_Falling in love._

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something. He bit his lip and blinked.

Looking back at John with those indescribably coloured eyes, he spoke.

"John, I love you t-"

John woke with a start, sitting up in bed.

_It was just a dream._

_It was just a dream._

_It was just a dream._

_Sherlock wasn't there._

_This was reality._

_Sherlock is still dead._

_Sherlock didn't love me._

_I don't love Sherlock._

_That was just a dream._

"John, are you alright?" He felt warm hands touch his shoulder. Mary. "Yes, I'm fine… It was just a… bad… dream."

_Yes._

_It was just a dream._

"I need a minute," John said as he pulled himself out of bed and walked towards the door.

John was still trying to get used to 221B. He had been here for a month now, and he still found himself feeling lost in his own home. He closed the bedroom door behind himself and started down the stairs to the sitting room/ kitchen area of the flat.

_He'd make some tea._

_He'd forget about the dream._

_But…_

_He didn't want to forget it._

_Sherlock…_

_I don't want to forget you._

He opened the door to the kitchen and stepped towards the cupboard. Pulling out the tea, he thought about the kiss.

_Sherlock's kiss._

It had felt so different, so unreal. Probably because it was a dream… But now John wished that he could see what it really was like… to kiss Sherlock, that is.

Putting the water on boil, he leaned against the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest, he felt cold.

_He could still remember the touch of Sherlock arms around him._

_So protective._

_So safe._

_Keeping him grounded before he started to fall._

John hoped that Mary wouldn't come down tonight, whenever she did, John felt oddly uncomfortable. As if he had broken a rule, letting Mary stay here with him.

_This was Sherlock's home after all._

_John and Sherlock's home._

_No-one else was suppose to live here._

_This was John and Sherlock's space, just for them._

_It was the only place that they could be themselves around each other._

_They didn't have to worry about what people thought of them when they were here._

_No-one could climb the windows and sneak a peek._

_See if Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson really were together._

_Romantically, that is…_

_But life had been so normal, so boring before._

_John would read the newspaper or type on his laptop._

_Sherlock would skulk on the sofa or mix chemicals in the kitchen._

_They're life had been so ordinary._

_And so extraordinary. _

_And now Sherlock wasn't here._

John drew in a shallow breath and looked at the hallway that led to Sherlock's room. He'd make camp outside of Sherlock's bedroom, just as he always did. He'd wait for Sherlock to open the door and come out to make John tea, offer some company.

When the tea was ready, John took a sip and moved towards the hallway. He had had many strange dreams since moving back into the flat. It was as if the old place had ruffled up memories and created new realities in his dreams.

_Realities where Sherlock was alive._

_Where John could tell Sherlock how much he loved him._

_Where Sherlock almost said the words, but never completed the sentence._

_John wanted to hear the whole sentence._

_He wanted to hear Sherlock voice profess his love._

_It had seemed so unrealistic, so unlike Sherlock._

_Maybe that's why the Sherlock in John's dreams could never complete it._

_Because it wasn't going to happen. _

_Ever._

_He lost that hope on the day that Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Barts. _

John stood in front of Sherlock's door. He could already feel an uneasy quiver in his stomach, it could be mistaken as hope or fear.

_Either one._

Without another thought, John slid down the wall, his cup of tea in his left hand. He could feel the cold hollowness of the wall against his back. The cool wooden floor beneath him.

_There's no-one on the other side of the door._

_No-one is going to open that door and comfort me._

_Sherlock's not coming back._

_He's not here._

_So why am I still waiting?_

John took another sip of tea, squeezing his eyelids shut and trying to keep the memory of Sherlock's lips against his own.

_Soft._

_Warm._

_Comfortable._

_Those eyes._

_They were blue this time._

_There was something in his eyes…_

_Something that John recognized…_

_He'd seen that look before._

_Many times._

_Yet each and every time, John had misunderstood._

_It was what love looked like._

_Unconditional, indescribable, love._

_Wait…_

_Did that mean…_

_Did Sherlock…_

_No._

John had thought about it before. He'd thought about the prospect of Sherlock loving him. But it was a platonic love, intimate but… not _that_ intimate…

_Sherlock wasn't in love with John._

_No._

_If he loved John… truly loved him…_

_He wouldn't of jumped from that building._

_No. _

_He wouldn't…_

John bit onto his lip, trying to hold in bottled up emotions. He couldn't understand why his mind was doing this to him, looking for answers, the _wrong_ answers. He curled up his legs, managing the fetal position. He lay his head down on his knees, his lungs were burning, his head pounding, his heart felt… heavy, weighed down by something.

_Guilt?_

_Yeah… guilt._

_Of course._

_Guilt because he wasn't there for Sherlock._

_Guilt because he called Sherlock a machine, right before leaving him in that lab._

_Guilt because he didn't stop Sherlock._

_Guilt because he was the one to put Sherlock there._

_Friends protect people…_

_And John didn't protect Sherlock._

_Yes… It all made sense._

_This was John's fault._

_And now, this was John's punishment._

_Dreams and thoughts of what could have been._

_The possibilities…_

_Sherlock._

"John," it sounded so far away, so distant. Drowsy pain brought John back to the surface. "John, wake up, love."

"Sherlock!" he cried out with a start. He opened his eyes and looked into green eyes.

_Different eyes._

_Mary._

"Mary," John tried to correct himself, already a couple pauses too late. Mary was crouched down in front of him, her bathrobe lose around her waist. He could see the worry in her eyes, there was no doubt that she had heard him say "Sherlock" moments ago. John wanted to apologize, something, anything.

She put a hand to his face, a calming gesture, as if to assure John that he was forgiven. Mary offered a sweet, shy smile, but he could see hurt behind her eyes.

_More guilt._

"Sorry, Mary… I don't know… last night I had a dream, and without thinking," he looked up to his right, Sherlock's bedroom door was still closed, undisturbed. "I guess it was old habits… But I didn't realize that I fell asleep."

"It's alright, John," Mary began to stand up, she was so patient. "How about you come to the sofa and we can make some breakfast?" John looked up apologetically and tried to stand. He grimaced at the aches that began to spread over his libs, torso, and neck. Falling asleep upright against a wall does that to you.

Mary pretended not to notice. John hated it when people pointed out his physical aches and pains, like his limp. Mary had never bothered him or commented about his limp or his frequent daydreaming. In that way, they were perfect for each other. Mary was indeed a blessing, she was exactly what John had needed.

After some coffee and toast, they sat together on the sofa in silence. Mary tried to sooth John's aching neck, smoothing her fingers along the nape of his neck as he read the paper. It was moments like this that John felt completely safe and sound. It was the life he had always wanted, in a way. A woman who loved him, someone for him to care for and would care for him in return.

Only, John knew that this wasn't perfect. It wasn't the way he expected things to be. He could never imagine that Sherlock would be out of his life. As soon as they met, Sherlock had been a constant presence. It seemed impossible for him to ever disappear completely, and now, Sherlock only lived in John's memories, thoughts and dreams.

"John, what's that?" Mary interrupted John's thoughts, she pointed at the lower corner of the first page in the paper. Her eyes became serious with concentration as she read the article in small print. John looked down at the article that Mary had been reading.

_It was about Sherlock._

John could already feel his heart in his stomach, the heaviness in his chest returned with a vengeance. Most of the article was a blur, John scanned through it so quickly.

Mary asked John a question, but he couldn't hear it. The article was saying that Moriarty had vanished soon after the suicide, it mentioned that his disappearance might have something to do with the death of the "great and fake" Sherlock Holmes. John didn't know what to think or feel.

_Was it possible that Moriarty was still out there?_

_Even if Mycroft had told John that he was safe?_

_Was Moriarty waiting for John to find him?_

"John!" Mary started to sound frustrated, she pointed to the opposite page where another article said in bold font:

**Greg Lestrade resumes position at Scotland Yard.**

So now, Lestrade was back at work, no longer suspended for his working with Sherlock Holmes. But why did they accept him back? It was only a year after Sherlock's death, and now Lestrade was back at Scotland Yard?

John felt odd, as if this was unreal, still a dream. But it wasn't, so why were these things happening? Would Mycroft have something to do with it?

_Mycroft._

_Yes, he would._

_He was involved in everything._

"I have to call Mycroft," John mumbled as he stood from the sofa to get his phone.


	17. Bitter Thoughts

As Sherlock started to regain full consciousness, Mycroft told him what had happened the night that he had killed the assassin. Apparently while Sherlock was running through to the warehouse, some more of Moriarty's hidden employees tore apart his basement room. Mr. Peters, the landlord, was seriously injured while trying to stop the break-in. Sherlock was still stunned to find out that the employees discovered his only hiding place, though he wasn't totally surprised. He knew that Moriarty would be clever, and even in death, he could beat Sherlock.

Mycroft scolded Sherlock yet again about leaving the rented basement without complete instructions and full permission to hunt down the assassin. While the employees were killed at the scene, none of the important information got into the "Web"s hands. Sherlock had taken all of the most important information with him in his coat pocket when he left the basement that night, it had been a safety precaution, but Mycroft was still unforgiving about the whole predicament.

As for Sherlock's present and future whereabouts, he discovered that Mycroft had brought him to the house of their childhood, the grand Holmes family mansion in the country side. And for the remainder of this mission, Sherlock would have to stay here under the watchful eyes of Mycroft… and possibly their mother.

Sherlock had feared of this new setting, almost sensing the correct location. But since he had deleted it from his mind, he couldn't be sure until Mycroft told him.

Of course, Mycroft expected a bitter reaction. After all, this was the only place in the world that Sherlock would never want to come back to again. After running away from home in his youth, Sherlock had had no trouble settling in London, the independent boy he was. Mycroft came to London soon after, tracing his little brother's every movement and ensuring his protection, even if Sherlock hadn't wanted it. Their mother was always worried, she _still_ worried.

"I don't want to see her," Sherlock grumbled as he pushed a tray of food away. Mycroft sighed, taking out his phone after receiving a text. "You'll have to… at some point. She's your mother, you haven't seen her in thirteen years. You can't stay in your room forever." Sherlock put his hands over his face, covering any expression that Mycroft would surely see through.

_Sentiment._

_A chemical defeat found in the losing side._

_Sherlock didn't want to see his mother._

_He couldn't._

_He wouldn't._

"She'll be upset, Sherlock," Mycroft said, stepping away from Sherlock's bedroom door, and moving towards the bed. Though he was almost fully recovered, Sherlock didn't want to leave the comfort of those warm sheets and pillows. The less of his childhood home he saw, the better things would be.

_Again._

_It was the guilt._

_The sentiment._

"It wasn't _me_ who upset her, Mycroft!" Sherlock always used this argument, he tore his hands away from his face and glared at his older brother.

_So much bad blood between the two of them._

_Of course it was Mycroft's fault._

_Perfect, golden, Mycroft._

_The bastard._

Mycroft returned a glare and narrowed his eyes. There wasn't any sentiment or guilt in Mycroft's appearance.

_Of course not._

_Mycroft was either the master of disguise… _

_Or the master of sentiment._

"Then there should be no reason for you to hide from her. If it's all _my_ fault, you should be able to come to her with open arms. She'd accept _you_, you know. She always will," Mycroft said harshly.

_The thing was… Mycroft was right._

_It wasn't all Mycroft's fault._

_Part of the blame had to fall onto Sherlock._

_The psychopath._

_The sociopath._

_The freak._

_Sherlock._

Sherlock began to feel stupid emotions consume him, clouding up the mask of expression he wore. Mycroft had his eyes trained onto him with a power that was intimidating, unnerving. This was not the time to tear open old wounds, nor re-live old and bitter memories of this place.

_Freak._

_No Friends._

_Animal corpses in the grass._

_Experiments._

_Doctors._

_Punishments._

_Hiding._

_Mummy._

_Father._

_Monsters._

_Loneliness._

_Darkness._

_Drugs._

_Blood._

_Scars._

_Open windows._

_Wanting to escape._

_Trying to escape._

_Succeeding._

"Leave me alone, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, pulling the covers over his body and waiting to hear the footsteps fade away.

_Just like old times._

_Hiding under the sheets._

_Escaping the anger, pity, sadness of others._

_The worried looks of his family._

_The ignorant brush-off of his father._

_"He needs help."_

_"No he doesn't, he just wants attention."_

_Leave me alone._

_Leave me alone._

_Leave me alone._

Sherlock put his hands on his head, weaving his fingers through his curly hair and pulling with all his strength. He squeezed his eyelids shut and curled into a ball.

_Leave me alone._

_Go away._

_Go away._

_GO AWAY._

The itch was back, it came with a vengeance. Cocaine was sweet release.

_Sweet._

_Sweet._

_Release._

Sherlock felt coldness creep over his skin, numbing cold. Goose bumps rose to the surface and made him feel exposed, naked. Insecurities that hadn't resided in his mind for more than half his life were creeping back into his soul like a virus.

_It must be this goddamned house._

Waves of aching hunger came and went, every now and again it would ease enough to help him breathe again.

_Oxygen._

_John._

_Breathe._

Sherlock relaxed his muscles and let his body sag against the mattress. He tried to remember John's face, his voice, the way he walked, and how he made his coffee in the morning. He let the ghost of a smile appear on his lips, let the memories sooth him.

_Sherlock could still remember what was important._

_John._

John was a good enough reason for Sherlock to breath, to stay alive. Staying alive wouldn't be boring when there was the prospect of living for John, breathing for John.

_Even if John didn't know it yet._

_Even if there were things John didn't know._

_Things that even Sherlock couldn't understand._

_Sentiment._

_ Sherlock breath_ed a laugh and clutched onto the sheet beneath his body. _When had Sherlock allowed "sentiment" to cloud his judgment, his life? _

_Was it when he was trying to impress John with his deductive skills?_

_Or when he watched John step into the pool room, covered in semtex?_

_Was it when he eagerly tore the bombs from John's chest?_

_Or when they decided to risk their lives, to kill Moriarty?_

_Was it when he listened in on Irene and John's conversation?_

_Or when he nearly killed the man who threatened to further harm Mrs. Hudson?_

_Was it when he actually felt guilt course through him, after the events at Dartmoor?_

_Or when he faked his death to save his friends, and watched John fall apart?_

Opening his eyes, Sherlock listened to the silence and remained motionless, taking in his surroundings. There was bookshelves on either side of his bed, almost completely covering the east and west walls of the bedroom. His bed was across from the door and under the window. Afternoon light cascaded down onto the rumpled sheets and reflected the blinding light into his blinking eyes.

_He probably should get up._

_There was so much to do._

_Time was running out and the sooner that Sherlock found these bastards, the sooner he'd get back to John._

_But…_

_Would John accept him back?_

_Would he forgive Sherlock for the lies, the secrets, the grief?_

_John was with the woman right now?_

_Mary Morstan._

_She must be helping him, comforting him._

_Maybe she's helped him moved on._

_Forget?_

_No…_

_Just… help._

_But not forget…_

_John wouldn't forget…_

_Would he?_

Sherlock felt doubt, in himself and in John. It was uncomfortable, almost unnatural. Sherlock prided himself in being completely sure about everything. He had always known the answers.

When he thought that he saw the "hound" while in Dewer's Hallow, he felt "doubt". It was unnerving and frightening, in made his hands quiver and his heart rate soar. In that strange emotional state, Sherlock had offended his only friend and true companion.

And now… Sherlock wasn't sure if he was beginning to doubt in John's loyalty. The same unnerving quiver in the root of his soul began to make him doubt in his own friendship, his only friendship. John had texted him, a message that said "I don't want to forget you."

Sherlock told himself that Mary would be good for John, when Mycroft told him about John's recent developments, he almost wanted to laugh. He was surprised that John could actually remain in a relationship this long… But then he realized that it might have been because John had a new life now, separate from Sherlock's. And maybe, just maybe, if Sherlock was still there, John might not be thinking about marrying the woman, he might not have even met her in the first place.

_Again._

_All the blame came back to Sherlock._

_Regret._

_Guilt._

_Sentiment._

_Dammit._

Sherlock lifted his body from the mattress and stood up straight, letting his muscles adjust to the sudden movement.

_He needed his violin._

_He needed his experiments._

_He needed his John._

_Yes…_

_His John._

_His._

_Not Mary's._

Sherlock glared that the bright sunlight and tore the curtains across the windows, almost tearing the fabric with his strength. Now that there was much less light coming into the room, his eyes had to readjust to the change. He stumbled toward the chair that Mycroft sat in during his visits. A clean set of clothes were neatly folded and pressed in an almost military fashion.

Picking up the pile of clothing, Sherlock thought back to Buckingham Palace. He could already feel happiness bubble up from his chest and a smile spread across his face at the memory. He had been proud of the joke that him and John had made about Mycroft being "The Queen". It had been a very fond memory, one that John and him frequently visited whenever Mycroft stopped over at the flat.

Sherlock tried to compose himself as he started to get dressed in the clothing that Mycroft had left. Being in lounge clothes and pyjamas for so long had made Sherlock forget the feel of fabric, the buttons on his shirt didn't strain anymore with his recent weight loss. It reminded him of the days before flatmates, when there was no-one there to take care of him. After running his hands through his curly hair, he realized that while unconscious, someone must have trimmed his hair, it was no longer tickling the nape of his neck, it was back to his normal length.

Stepping out of the bedroom, he looked into the empty hallway. Swallowing the slight unease that resided at the back of his throat, he walked past rows of doorways and oil paintings.

_This was his childhood._

_This was his home._

Sherlock hoped that he wouldn't run into his brother or his mother as he turned a corner and searched his brain for a memory of anything. Since Sherlock "deleted" unnecessary information, the task seemed almost impossible.

_This home was a nightmare._

_Of course it was deleted._

But now, Sherlock was lost. He couldn't recall the location of the library, and that was the _only_ place he really thought he could manage staying in. When the experiments were thrown out, Sherlock's favourite place had been the library. Not to mention, it was quiet and secluded, away from his family.

Sherlock turned another corner until he saw a door that struck him as important. He might have deleted the memory of this _hell_, but some memories could not go completely forgotten. This doorway most-definitely would lead him to the library.

As he turned the door handle and stepped through the threshold, Sherlock began to walk much quicker. He feet led him to another turn, and then another doorway. Pushing two double doors open, he found himself surrounded by shelves and columns of books. The far wall was lit with sunlight from large glass windows, and left intricate patterns on the carpeted floor. Sherlock breathed in the scent of many untouched and forgotten books. His fingers ached for the feel of hardcovers and leather-bound chronicles.

His senses reminded him of childhood adventures, looking for pirate treasure as he climbed the shelves. Mummy always panicked when she saw him swinging from the ladder with a fake sword in hand, but Father would always reassure her that the young boy would be fine. He had always been very indifferent to danger while in a drunken state…

Sherlock slid his finger tips along the high shelf and looked for purchase. Dust started to fall as he grabbed hold of a science journal and pulled it into view.

**The Solar System and It's Many Components, 1987**

He smiled down at the journal in his hands, stepping toward an armchair to sit in. He remembered the conversation with John about the solar system. "Primary School stuff". Flipping to the table of contents, Sherlock decided that the solar system was suddenly very interesting.

_When he got to see John again…_

_If… he saw John again…_

_He'd tell John about the solar system._

_He'd like that… wouldn't he?_

Sherlock absorbed as much information as he could, not paying attention to the way that time flew by. Before he knew it, he was slouched over in the armchair with his legs dangling over one of the arms and the back of his neck resting against the other. His eyelids dropped from exhaustion and before he could control his bodily functions, he was asleep.

Mycroft came into the library to find his little brother curled up in the armchair, a science journal spread across his chest. Careful not to disturb Sherlock, Mycroft pulled the journal and read the label, smiling.

Mycroft would never reveal clear and sincere emotions for his brother to see. But since Sherlock was asleep, he didn't care that he was smiling down at his baby brother with affection and gentleness. It just seemed so childish and romantic of Sherlock to be reading up on astronomy to win the admiration and devotion of John Watson, if the opportunity ever arose.

As an older brother, Mycroft had always strove for Sherlock's happiness. Even if Sherlock believed him to be his "arch-enemy", he must have known that Mycroft has always cared. After all, it was the only reason for Mycroft to follow him into London and keep watchful eyes on him through security cameras. It was an odd way to show love, but it was a "Holmes" way, unique in it's methods.

Mycroft didn't bother to wake him, through he knew that Sherlock would be sore and weary when he awoke from the chair in the morning. Before leaving the library, Mycroft took a lingering look at the man.

_Bruises on neck/ collar: Fading._

_Cheeks hollow: From starving himself so much._

_Dark circles under eyes: Worsening._

_Eyelids fluttering: REM cycle._

_Slightly quickened breathing and heart rate. _

_Tense yet slightly relaxed muscles. _

_Probably dreaming about John._

_Fresh clothing: Mycroft had laid it out for him earlier that morning._

Turning to the double doors, Mycroft walked towards their Mother. She was standing outside the door with a dressing gown clutched around her body and a worried expression on her tired face.

"How is he?" She asked Mycroft in a whisper. He closed the doors behind himself and looked down at her, holding up the science journal for her to see.

"Fine. Better. He's occupying himself with something… at least. It's best to still give him space, Mummy. He's not keen on attention…"

His mother looked from the journal, back to him and gave him a small reassured smile. The creases around her eyes had become more dominant over the years, her hair was already completely white. Years of illness and stress had aged her beyond her years, and Mycroft wished that there was something he could do to help her.

They walked back down the hallway in silence, Mycroft escorted her to her own bedroom on the floor above. Kissing her goodnight on the forehead, she patted him on the shoulder and closed the door. All the weight from her suffering seemed to settle onto Mycroft's shoulders, his kind grin turned into a scowl as he crossed the hallway to his own childhood room. He passed Sherlock's old room as if it held a ghost, a shiver crawled down his spine as he passed the abandoned space. For the time being, Sherlock was to be staying in the guest room, but as soon as he was ready, Mycroft would have to take him to the bedroom of his childhood. It would serve as a bitter reminder of past failures and bad decisions, but it had to be done. Sherlock needed something to boost his dwindling confidence, something to remind him that he needed his old life back.

_His life at 221B Baker Street._

There was new decisions to be made, more to accomplish. And within a month's time, Sherlock would be receiving a very… unexpected visitor.


	18. The First Warning

"So, how's Mary? You both already sorted at the flat?" Greg Lestrade laid down two coffees before John. They hadn't talked to or seen each other for more than a year already. It was a typical rainy day in early October, they decided to meet up at the Criterion to catch up and try to renew the friendship they lost a little over a year ago.

John picked up his coffee and took a sip, "Mary's fine, she goes between the two places. She usually stays at her place during the week, it's closer to her job that way. She comes over to stay at Baker Street on weekends."

John licked his lips and looked out the window for a moment, anxious. For the past few weeks, Mycroft hadn't answered any of his calls or texts. Being out of the flat had made John nervous, for Mary's safety and his own. Mycroft Holmes had made himself very clear when he told John to break off the relationship with Mary, and John didn't listen. If anything, John had made everything potentially worse.

"John! Hey, mate! Over here!" John felt his eyes come back into focus, Greg was still sitting in front of him, but he looked a little exasperated and frustrated. John realized that Greg had still been talking to him, but he hadn't heard a single word.

"Sorry, Greg… I've just been a little destracted lately. It… hasn't been easy." John tried to smile but it was weak and forced, an expression that he'd had to fake quite a bit since Sherlock's death.

A look of apology washed over Lestrade and he offered John a sincere smile, encouraging. "Sorry, mate. I can't imagine what it must be like… did you… want to talk about it?" Greg had never been a very nurturing person, it wasn't a part of his charm. In situations like this, Greg usually clammed up and got a bit edgy. John had seen him around the families and friends of murder victims, giving the unfortunate news. This was different, this was friend to friend, Greg to John, but it was still awkward and robotic.

John spared him, "No, it's… fine. I just… have a lot to think about."

Greg took a sip of his own coffee and changed the subject, they were both relieved, "I got my old office back at Scotland Yard, same crew too. I'm not sure how it all happened, but it did. Thought I was a goner for sure."

Fiddling with the plastic top of his coffee cup, John's brow furrowed. He remembered back to reading the article in the news with Mary, the article about Lestrade going back to Scotland Yard. Lestrade wasn't the only one surprised that he had gotten his job back, everyone was surprised. What kind of connections could have sorted everything out? Lestrade had let Sherlock Holmes work with Scotland Yard on some very large and serious cases, and after Sherlock had been suspected of murder _himself_, everyone would have thought that Greg would remain a marked man, someone who no-one would hire. Yet somehow, Lestrade was back to being Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector with no penalties or faults.

_Could it have been Mycroft?_

_Possibly._

"Anyways, John. I was wondering, and don't take this the wrong way… if you would want to start working on a few cases again? I've gotten the agreement with my boss, so there wouldn't be any trouble this time. I know that it's going to be… different. But we really do value your opinion in the cases." Greg smiled and took another sip, looking at John with eagerness.

John bit his lip, "Maybe… I don't know. I think I'd like a little more time. I have more hours at the clinic now, there's still a lot to get sorted…"

"I understand, John. I just wanted you to know that the offer is there."

"Thanks, Greg. I'll let you know if I need anything. As it is… there's been some odd stuff happening lately." John inhaled and looked up at Lestrade, " Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with that…"

John told Lestrade about strange occurrences, starting with Mycroft's odd and sudden silence and ending with being watched by strangers in public places. When John moved back to Baker Street a few months prior, he began to feel a sense of dread that was definitely not linked to mourning Sherlock. This was different, and it felt… dangerous. John would look out the window of the flat to see someone across the road, watching him with narrowed eyes and seriousness in their composure. Sometimes John would be walking to the clinic or coming home from the grocery store to see someone following him. The strangers were similar in appearance, tall and bulky, face hidden behind a newspaper or coat collar, leather jackets and black jeans, and a briefcase under the left arm. It wasn't the same person every time, and there was always something slightly different with each one's appearance. On a couple occasions, even Mary had become nervous when she noticed someone following her, same characteristics and everything.

John described it all to Lestrade and he wrote it down on a small notepad. Lestrade assured him that they would keep an eye out and update John with any of the Yard's findings. After leaving the Criterion, John took a taxi back to Baker Street, watching every person who passed while he sat in the backseat.

After unlocking the front door and going up the stairs, he pulled his buzzing cell phone from his pocket and opened the door to the sitting room. He wasn't prepared for the visitor standing with their back to him and looking out the window onto the street below. John must have missed the black car in front of the flat, which was strange considering he thought he had been aware of his surroundings.

"Mycroft?" He said, checking his phone for the new message that appeared on the screen.

_Upstairs. M_

Mycroft turned toward John with a disinterested expression. His hands were behind his back and he looked back at John with striking presence. John almost wanted to shrink away from the man's observing eyes, but he stood his ground, ready to ask questions.

"How are you, John?" He asked as he raised his nose in the air, dissatisfaction was written all over his appearance now. He probably deduced everything about John in a matter of two seconds. He'd already know about John's coffee with Lestrade, he'd know that John had had a restless sleep the night before, he'd know the John had questions, he'd know that John hadn't broken off his relationship with Mary.

"I'm fine. You already know that though, so what do you want?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed with concentration and seriousness. "To warn you."

"Warn me about what?" John shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms over his chest, "That I'm in danger? That I'm being watched? That Moriarty still has his bloodthirsty eyes all over me? I already know, Mycroft. I'm not an idiot."

Mycroft didn't say anything, he was going to let John finish his rant.

"Oh yeah, and I _forgot_. You want me to leave Mary too. You already _told_ me to and I didn't bloody-listen. Why, Mycroft? Why!"

John's heart was racing now, he looked up at Mycroft with loathing, complete hatred of the man. Mycroft moved towards the armchairs and sat in Sherlock's old seat.

"Sit down, John." He folded his hands and waited for John to comply. Moving robotically, John sat in his own armchair opposite Mycroft, rigid in his seat. Mycroft seemed rather relaxed in comparison, "Yes, you're quite right, John. But not on all accounts."

John looked back at Mycroft and waited for an explanation, waited for that sick and cruel grin to appear on Mycroft's face as he told John how he was wrong, how he's always wrong.

"I'd like to ask you to leave you're questions for when I'm finished. There's much for me to say and very little time for me to chat before I move on to other engagements." John nodded and waited. "First, I'd like to inform you that you are indeed correct on most accounts. Yes, you are being watched by Moriarty's web, and yes, you are in danger." Here came the sick grin of his, "And yes, you didn't listen to me when I told you to leave Miss Morstan alone. Which is a very bad move, I must say…"

John wasn't surprised, but still unclear of which part he was wrong about. He waited for Mycroft to continue. It amazed him, the time that it took the bloody man to get the words out since he had "limited time".

"It is my job to inform you today, that Moriarty is indeed dead. It is not my place to tell you how or when he died, but I can tell you that he is most certainly dead. He is no longer of your concern, but as I mentioned before, it doesn't mean that you are out of trouble. Moriarty had many employees, people who he trusted with carrying out his left-over occupations in the event of his death. Those employees, as you probably already know, are the people who have been watching your movements since you came back to Baker Street.

"As you recall, I was very vague in the last conversation we had. I implied that braking off your relationship with Miss Morstan would be best. I also implied that moving back to Baker Street would not be the wisest of ideas. And as we can both see, you ignored both suggestions. This is possibly why you are in even more danger _now_ than you were before. Moving back here has caused some unwanted and unneeded attention. Of course, I still have my own security watching out for you and the woman, but it has become increasingly difficult.

"This is why I come to you today. I offer you another warning, another chance to ease your nerves. You have deliberately put yourself and Miss Morstan in danger. I suggest that you take my warning in consideration. You may enjoy the battlefield that surrounds you… but I doubt that it's fair to bring Miss Morstan into this."

John didn't know what to say. As soon as Mycroft had said that Moriarty was dead, he felt numb, almost lightheaded. Somehow the news did not ease John's mind in the slightest. Mycroft sounded like a broken record after that, restating the past suggestions about Mary. More than anything, John wanted to find a reason to keep Mary, make her stay. But his heart began to fall when he realized that Mycroft was right, he couldn't put the woman that he loved in danger.

_Just as he put Sherlock in danger._

He finally opened his mouth, words feeling too dry on his tongue, "The assassins… The papers you gave me. You told me that they were watching Sherlock, that they were out to get him. Two ended up dying when they saved him. But what about the other two? From the files you gave me? What about them?"

Mycroft sat in silence, tight-lipped. John felt even more worry wash over him, he was on the edge in his seat. He wanted to beat the information out of Mycroft, he wanted to _know_.

"The files, Mycroft. You gave them to me. They're on that desk." John stood up to get the files, he felt so pale and sick that he wanted to vomit. He moved towards the desk by the window and started shifting through the mess of papers.

"John, they're not there. Those files? They disappeared last week while you were sleeping. We have surveillance. A dark figure entered this room at three in the morning and removed the files from the desk. One of my government agents followed the intruder but we never retrieved the files. Nor do I have another record on them. I'm sorry, John."

Turning from the desk to face Mycroft, John balled his fists at his sides, his fingernails began to dig into the soft flesh of his palms. He groped the desk behind him with his left hand, trying to steady himself. Half a second later, he was pacing back and forth, his fingers gripping his hair as he tried to remember the information from the files.

"There was a man and a woman left… the last two assassins… the Russian woman, a killer…" Mycroft's eyes followed him as he paced. "What was the woman's name? She moved across the street, the flat across the street… Russian name… Lumia? No… Ludia?… No, what was her last name?… Something with a "D", it ended with an "o"…" John grunted, racking his brain for answers, anything that he could remember.

"There was a man… what was his name? The man… Moran?"

"John… Very soon after Sherlock's… death, the remaining assassins vanished. The two that saved Sherlock on separate occasions are believe to be double-agents or working to protect him from the other two. We think that it was the other two assassins, the Russian killer and the unknown man, that killed the protectors. Those two are the ones we had the least information on, inconveniently. The flat across the street has been vacant more than a year now, no sign of the woman.

"At this point in time, I'd kindly ask you to leave this to me. It's believed that Moriarty was much more prepared than we believed him to be in these circumstances. You have been warned about the dangers that may cross your path, and endanger Miss Morstan." Mycroft stood from the armchair and John stopped pacing, he bit his lip and watched Mycroft with furious anger in his eyes, "I hope that you take that into consideration as the potential for further trouble becomes more prominent. At this point in time, I'd kindly ask you to break your connections to the woman and stay out of trouble. Leave the research to my team, you've dealt with enough in the past year alone. If you try to look for the assassins … I fear that you might make things much worse. And if that happens… I can't ensure you're safety in any way whatsoever."

John looked at the ground and heard Mycroft walk past him to the door. After listening to each of his footsteps on the wooden stairs to the main floor, he heard the door open and close, a car drove away.

Collapsing in his armchair again, John clutched the fabric under his palms and watched the seat across from him.

_Sherlock's armchair._

He felt his breathing begin to speed up, he was numb and shivering. Silence was everywhere except for the shallow sounds of his inhaling and exhaling. John closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to focus, to wrap his mind around everything that had just happened.

_John had wanted Mycroft to explain._

_And Mycroft did. _

Now John would have to follow what he was told. He'd have to stop searching, stop looking for answers. John would have to leave Mary, the only woman who he could really care about, the only woman who could really understand him…

He looked back from the armchair, his eyes wandering towards the hallway to Sherlock's room. The door was closed, inviting… yet uninviting all the same. He wanted to go inside, he wanted to be flooded by memories. To run his hands over the long coat, no longer stained with Sherlock's blood. To lie down on the cold sheets that hadn't been warm in over a year. To re-sort the sock index the way that Sherlock liked best.

Already, John was beginning to forget what the violin sounded like, he was forgetting the colour of Sherlock's eyes, the sound of his laugh…

John remembered back to the beginning of his relationship with Mary. He thought about what he would have chosen, had things been different…

_Would he have chosen Sherlock over Mary?_

He didn't even have to really think about it. He knew the answer: _yes_. It pained him to realize the truth. That even though Sherlock was gone, never to return, he still couldn't choose to keep Mary.

_The only other person whom he had ever loved..._

_Now he would have to be completely alone._

_Again._


	19. The Woman

Sherlock woke up after a restless sleep, he was eager to see dawn through the window. But it wasn't over, darkness still covered every surface, only the faint glow of moonlight . So far, it had been a night full of nightmares, of wants, fears, and madness. He'd dreamed of blood, pain, bullets,weakness, tears, lips, warmth, want, lust, _John_.

Too many times he awoke with a film of sweat over the surface of his skin and pain in his chest. It was raining, there was thunder and lightning. The longing had become too much, Sherlock couldn't escape the _sentiment_, the emotions that were beginning to rule him.

_There was something he needed to do._

_He wouldn't tell Mycroft._

_He wouldn't tell Mummy._

_It would be like the first time, years ago._

_But this time… as much as he didn't want to…_

_He'd come back home._

_He couldn't run away any longer._

_From his past._

_From his family._

_From his emotions._

_From himself._

He dressed into dark clothes, something that would blend into the darkness around him when he left the house. He opened the window, feeling cold late September air rush over his face. He clutched at the brick as he climbed to the ground. He'd have to be quiet, careful, he wasn't allowed to let sentiment control him once he entered 221B. This wasn't just a visit, to see John. This was also a mission, to get back information that would assist him in finding the next assassins. John had files that Mycroft had given him, the files had been on the four different assassins located on Baker Street. They were thought to be stalking Sherlock, waiting for their moment to get the best shot and pull the trigger.

After two long cab rides, Sherlock had found his way back to the old flat, 221B Baker Street. His heart was already beating like mad, despite the cold, he felt a film of fresh cold sweat on his forehead. Walking into the back alleyway, he climbed up the wall towards the kitchen window. He'd done this before, hed noticed _The Woman_ also use this route. When he got to the window, he clutched onto the wall with one hand and unclasped the lock on the window with his other hand. He was careful to not fall from the ledge, sliding the window open, he climbed in.

Sherlock wasn't the best at stealth, but he was good enough to not wake John. Considering that John was trained in the military to be woken by the smallest noise, Sherlock had escaped in the night or come up the stairs to John's room numerous times without making the army doctor stir.

Carefully stepping into the kitchen, Sherlock listened to the silence. The only sound that he could hear was a dog barking down the street, otherwise, the night was silent as the dead. Without another delay, Sherlock walked into the sitting room, he could clearly see the files on top of John's computer. Moonlight cascaded from the window and made it easy to see his surroundings. Sliding the files into his coat, he looked around him.

_The flat hadn't changed…_

_At all._

_Everything was still in it's place._

_It was… unnerving…_

_But also meaningful, heartwarming._

Sherlock felt a stirring in his chest, it was familiar by now, but he still couldn't understand the exact meaning of it. With careful steps, he walked towards the hallway, seeing the unopened door to his old bedroom, abandoned. Sherlock missed this place, he would only have this one night of peace before going back. But if anything, seeing this flat again was the biggest motivator that he had to finish this.

_He had to come back._

_To John._

Without hesitation, Sherlock started to carefully make his way up the stairs to John's bedroom. Sherlock didn't go up there often while they were living together, it was only to wake John up for a case, or to ask a question. He never went up there to look in on John, watch him in that peaceful state of sleep.

_There had always been a reason._

_But…_

_This could be a reason too, right?_

Sherlock felt breathing become difficult, he made it to the top of the stairs and saw the slightly open doorway. He could almost feel himself become more… whole. It was a strange feeling, it defied biology, nature, science.

_It was like myth becoming reality._

He touched the door with the pads of his fingers and gently push it open.

_Heart beating fast._

_Face flushed._

_Pupils dilated._

_Shaky breath._

_Oxygen._

_John._

_Oxygen._

_John…_

Sherlock looked at the sleeping form of his friend, his only friend. Immediately, he felt like collapsing at John's side, holding him, crying against him. Sentiment had never controlled him this much, ever. Not even in childhood. Maintaining enough control of his body, Sherlock stood over the bed, looking down at the weary and restless face of John Watson.

_Mary wasn't here tonight._

_John was alone._

Sherlock was relieved that Mary Morstan wasn't here tonight, it would have pained him to see John holding the woman in his arms. Sherlock wouldn't have stayed a little longer, he would have left immediately. But that was not the case tonight.

_John was so close._

_Just beside him._

_Living._

_Breathing._

_John._

If anything, this was making it more difficult for Sherlock to leave, to go back to his temporary home. Sherlock curled his hands into fists as his sides. More than anything, he wanted to climb into bed beside John, just to be with him, to feel his warmth, his closeness. More than anything in the world, Sherlock just wanted to _stay_.

His body let down one little defence against sentiment. A tear rolled down his face, just one tear.

_And it was enough._

_This was it._

Leaning down, Sherlock put his right palm against John's chest, just over his steady beating heart. Sherlock could feel the rhyme, the movement under his hand. It was comforting.

_A living, breathing heart._

_A hollow muscular organ._

_Pumping blood through the circulatory system._

_Often regarded as the centre of a person's thoughts and emotions._

_John's heart._

_A heart that Sherlock could love._

_A heart that just might love Sherlock back…_

Sherlock wanted to plant a light kiss to John's forehead, he wanted to feel the warmth of John's skin against his lips. He wanted to wake John up, reveal himself, show John that he's alive.

_But it couldn't happen._

_Not yet._

_There was more to do._

_It wasn't safe._

_He shouldn't be here._

Quickly taking his hands from John's chest, Sherlock strode away from the man and closed the door.

_He had to go back._

_He had the files now._

_It was time to go back._

After climbing the side of his childhood home and into the open window, Sherlock padded back into the bedroom, still dripping from the rain. Immediately, he noticed that something was… off. Narrowing his eyes, he carefully walked towards the rumpled sheets on his bed and noticed his phone. The screen was lit up with a new text message, an alert would have sounded moments ago, his eyes widened and his heart rate began to soar.

_Another text from John?_

_It hadn't been months since the last one. _

_Could John possibly have heard him in the house?_

_Had he seen Sherlock, felt his presence? _

Sherlock didn't know where his phone had come from, he hadn't thought about it since the night he killed the first assassin. Someone had put it here while he was at Baker Street… Someone could _still_ be here.

The text alert sounded, something that he hadn't heard in a long time. Something that he thought he'd never hear again. He picked up the phone and looked at the caller ID, even though he already knew who it was. His heart dropped in his chest when his suspicions were confirmed.

**_The Woman_**

_Irene Adler._

Sherlock opened up the two new messages that flashed on the screen.

_Let's have dinner._

_Could be hungry. _

Sherlock lowered the phone and stood incredibly still and silent. He couldn't hear anything else in the room, no movement or breathing whatsoever. After a moment, he saw a movement from behind a dark corner to his right. Someone stepped out of the shadow, and moved into a small sliver of moonlight from the window.

"Tell him you're alive," she spoke in a whisper, difficult to hear, but full of demand and sentiment.

_Ha._

_Sentiment._

"He'd come after me," Sherlock replied clearly, his voice didn't waver, even though he could feel his foundations breaking down around him. Focusing on his breathing, he glared at the figure of Irene Adler. He hadn't seen her since her escape from terrorists in Karachi. Last he'd heard, she was in America under a new identity. But now, she was standing before him, she hadn't changed in the least.

Taking a couple steps toward Sherlock, her eyes were as clear and hard as stone, persistent. "I'll come after you if you don't."

Sherlock bit onto the inside of his lip, he tried to think of words to say, something to convince him that he couldn't tell John.

_But he wanted to._

_Even the Woman wanted him to._

_He would… if he could…_

_He would have told John a long time ago._

_He would have woken John up earlier tonight, told him everything._

_In fact, he wouldn't have even done this to John in the first place._

_But he had to._

_It was the only way._

_He couldn't tell John yet._

_He couldn't reveal himself until the time was right._

_Irene had to understand._

_He had to make her understand._

"I… can't. I can't do that." Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, trying to control the stupid emotions and reactions of his body. All of the anger in Irene's face seemed to disappear, it was if she had read his mind.

She reached up a gloved hand and touched Sherlock's face, smoothing her hand along his left cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to let go of all the sensations running through him.

"You love him. You've always love him." Irene spoke like a gentle mother caressing her child. "Why didn't you ever tell him?"

Sherlock willed his eyes to open again, he tried to summon all the strength he had, but it didn't seem to be enough. That restless night had left him weak and powerless, the perfect state for the Woman to scold him, hurt him, beat him.

"What was there to tell?" Sherlock scowled, stepping away from Irene's touch. She stayed where she was, her hand still outstretched. She stood, tight lipped and frustrated. Sherlock hadn't the faintest idea that she would care so much.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked another question, still waiting for a response, anything. The silence was making him go insane, he wanted to shake the words out of her mouth, he wanted her to say everything that she was too afraid to say.

_"Why didn't you die for him then?_

_Really die?_

_You're a freak._

_You're a coward."_

Would she really be thinking those questions and accusations? Or were those just the things that Sherlock thought of himself, chastised himself for. Was that why he had gone back to using serious and harmful drugs? Was that why he tormented himself in a lonely basement? Was that why he couldn't look at his reflection anymore?

"I care…" Irene began, looking away from Sherlock, "Because I know what he means to you." She looked back up at him, there was a renewed strength behind her eyes, but not a punishment, it was encouragement.

"I saw the way that you looked at him, talked to him, cared for him." She straightened her posture and put her hands on her hips. "And then I saw the way that he looked at you… the things he did for you."

Sherlock felt uncomfortable, he found himself searching for memories, anything to help him see what she had seen.

"You were there, that day… When I revealed that I was alive, to Dr. Watson." She stepped forward, trying to capture Sherlock gaze, "You heard what he said. What he _really_ said… He loves you."

Sherlock heard the words, but still didn't want to believe any of it. Phrases went through his mind, things that John had said. John had been so caught up in appearances, in clarifying where he stood with Sherlock. The definitions of their relationship, defending himself. And Sherlock had never said anything, he'd never protested or suggested that John was wrong. The quiet child inside him told him to never rock the boat, to keep his thoughts and wishes to himself. That it was better this way, staying away from sentiment, commitment, _love_.

"I can't have him," Sherlock whispered weakly, feeling more vulnerable in that moment than he had ever felt. Irene look into his eyes and put both her hands to either side of his face,

"You're wrong." She smoothed away a single tear from under his eye, "You can have him. And you _will_ have him."

With every breath that Sherlock took, one word formed in his mind over and over again. It was a blinding force, something that could make him do anything.

_John._

"I need…" Sherlock began, clearing his throat, "I need to finish off Moriarty's web first. I need to get John out of danger."

"I can assist you there, Mr. Holmes," Irene said with a smirk. She released his face and folded her arms over her chest.

Sherlock scowled again, "But I thought you were working for Moriarty. You could _never_ help me. I don't _need_ your help."

"Ah, but you _do_." She stepped away from him, turning her back to him and looking out the window, "Besides, my work for Moriarty is finished. It was a boring game to play, but to be fair… I only played for the perks. I've never remained on one side, Sherlock. I'm quite open-minded. And I'm ready to play another game. So," Irene turned and walked toward him in seconds, he could feel the warmth of her body so close to him. Sherlock was frozen, too stiff to move away from her. Irene breathed onto his face, her lips parting sensually, "Let's have dinner."


	20. Calm Before the Storm

John stood by the window in the sitting room, he felt restless and anxious. His phone was in his hand, ready for a call. He looked out onto the lazy street, melted snow and grime made each passing car noisy. But every car that passed 221B was not Mary.

_It was friday night._

_Mary always came over on friday nights._

_But tonight…_

_She hadn't come._

_At least, not yet._

_Maybe… _

John looked down at his cell phone, he checked for missed calls or unread messages. Sitting down in the chair at his desk, he put the phone down and laid his head in his hands. He practiced breathing, tried to hold himself together.

_Mary had been late before._

_Maybe she had a staff meeting, or an after-school study session._

_But…_

_Maybe something was wrong._

_Maybe she was in danger._

John rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair, he closed his eyes, listening to his own shaky inhales and exhales. He could still hear cars passing by outside, he could still hear the clock ticking away on the kitchen wall… but Mary should be here.

_Guilt._

_Anger._

_Worry._

_John was to blame._

_For everything._

_For Sherlock._

_For Mary._

_And now he was alone._

There was a sudden noise from the hallway downstairs, John's eyes shot open and he jumped from his seat. "Mary?" he called out, trying to chase the worry and frustration out of his voice. Standing at the railing above the landing, he looked down to see the familiar figure of Mary.

Her hair was damp, her face was flushed, and she looked better than ever. John felt warm relief, replacing the chill of fear and anxiety. Mary looked up to see John staring at her. An easy smile was on her face, but as soon as she looked John over, her expression changed to worry, mirroring John's earlier expression.

"Are you alright, love?" She called up to him, taking off her jacket. John just stared at her, frozen in place. Mary was very good at reading emotions, he knew that, so there wasn't any point in trying to hide his worries any longer.

"Why are you so late? I thought you'd be here a couple hours ago. I made tea," John gestured to the upstairs kitchen, weakly. Mary walked towards him, taking quick steps up the stairs to meet him.

Reaching for his hand, she intertwining their fingers together. "Staff meeting, it was unplanned so I couldn't warn you ahead of time. Sorry about that, I should have at least called you."

"It's alright, Mary, I just worried about you in this weather. You look like you could really use a tea though… cuppa?" John offered a smile, trying to let go of the reoccurring feeling of dread. Mary murmured in agreement and kissed him on the cheek.

After making fresh tea, they sat in silence on the sofa for awhile. The fireplace lit the dim room and crackled with sparks. Mary had her legs curled up next to John's, her arms were around his shoulders. John smoothed his fingers through her hair still distracted with thoughts and worries.

_He had to tell her._

_At some point._

_Sooner rather than later._

_He'd have to leave her._

_It was for her own good._

_He couldn't be selfish._

"John?" Her voice was quiet, gentle, _a warning_. John turned to look at her, their noses almost touching. Mary licked her lips, opened her mouth and then closed it again. It was obvious that she had something on her mind, something that she wanted to talk about, and from the look in her eyes… it didn't look like it would be a cheerful topic.

John didn't know if he should reassure her, tell her to say whatever she needed to say, that he'd be understanding and open to her words. But he knew that it could become a trap, that he might not what to hear what she had to say.

_Some things are best left unsaid._

_Like John's final words to Sherlock._

_Things that he would have never said._

_Things that Sherlock wouldn't have understood._

_Things that John didn't understand, himself…_

Mary was still silent, her eyes were downcast and ashamed. John waited patiently, he could already begin to feel his face colour with awkwardness and anxiety. He hoped that she wouldn't notice.

He heard a sudden intake of breath and looked back at Mary, guarding his emotions. She looked back up at him again, more ready this time. "Did you ever _love_ him?"

Mary didn't have to clarify who she was talking about, it was obvious. But John was unprepared for this question, he didn't know how to respond or react. His heart rate began to quicken and he looked away from Mary. His eyes turned toward the fireplace, the glare from it's brightness was beginning to make his eyes sore.

_Did he ever love Sherlock?_

_Yes._

_No._

_Maybe…_

He felt Mary squeeze his hand in her own, it was reassurance, understanding. Mary would probably know if he loved Sherlock before the thought ever crossed his own mind. As it was, Irene Adler obviously had known it. Almost everyone had seen it, John was just too ignorant and afraid to acknowledge it.

_He couldn't lie to himself._

_The thought… the possibility wasn't new to him._

_He'd thought about it before._

_It felt like years ago, but John felt like he had always loved the mad genius._

_It was something he couldn't control._

_True emotion, sentiment, was uncontrollable._

_It seemed that the only person with control over sentiment was Sherlock._

_John wasn't like that._

_His feelings always controlled him._

_He just hadn't let anyone know, or at least he tried…_

_It was impossible to hide anything to Sherlock._

_Again, John was plagued with an idea:_

_Did Sherlock know how much John loved him?_

_Did he have similar feelings?_

"John," Mary kissed his cheek, bringing him back to the present, here and now. This wasn't the time for petty memories, looking for clues and trying to deduce Sherlock's and his own behaviour from the past.

"Yes," John said weakly. It was a reply to the question, and Mary knew it. Immediately, she held onto him tighter, comforting him. She wasn't angry, of course not.

_This was why Mary was so special, so important._

_She understood._

_Everything._

_Even John and his deepest worries and emotions._

_She understood…_

John responded to her comforting embrace, his hugged her back. Kissing her on the forehead, he managed a small smile. He wanted to tell her about everything, all his worries and thoughts, all the dark corners that lingered in his mind. Maybe if she knew everything, he'd feel like he wasn't hiding from her anymore. But at the same time, he didn't want his faults to be the reason she left.

_But in the end, she'd have to leave._

_There was no longer a chance for a future between them._

_Maybe after all the Moriarty stuff got sorted…_

_If... it got sorted._

The rest of the weekend spent together was just like any other weekend, yet it felt different this time. John wasn't sure if Mary could sense it too, but there was an impending fear that everything was going to end soon. Her reserved expressions made it seem that she was afraid the slightest touch might shatter their relationship into a million pieces, an unsolvable puzzle. Something that neither of them would ever have the chance to put back together. It was the calm before the storm, grey clouds that were drifting steadily towards them, ready to consume whatever happiness and light was left in what they had. Prolonging the pain wasn't going to make it any less of a downfall.

On sunday evening, Mary picked up her overnight bad and looked back at John. He had his arms folded over his chest, as he leaned against the wall by the main door. After giving him a warm hug and a kiss, John watched Mary open the door and walk out to the waiting cab.

John stood in the threshold, and watched the cab fade out of view at the end of the street. He felt the light rain of his face, a cool wild was blowing into the open doorway. After a brief shiver, John stepped back into the flat and closed the door. As he went back up the stairs to the sitting room, he thought about what he would tell Mary. No matter how hard he tried to piece together words, he couldn't think of a good enough reason to leave her.

_Danger perhaps?_

_The threat that their lives were in danger?_

_No, that wasn't good enough._

_John was prepared to end Moriarty's web in any way possible._

_Anything to keep Mary safe._

_He'd do anything, risk anything._

_To keep Mary…_


	21. The Guardian

By early spring, Sherlock had formed a pile of science journals on astronomy, it was his only other way to pass the time when he wasn't working on research for the second major assassin.

Mycroft came by every now and then to give Sherlock new information. He told him about Lestrade getting his job back, about suspicious agents stalking John and Mary, and a mysterious person who had taken John's files from the flat one night. He felt slight panic run through him, hoping that Mycroft wouldn't know that it was him who had gone for those files. Sherlock pretended to be disinterested in everyone's progress, but if Mycroft forgot to mention anything for nearly a week, Sherlock would shamefully ask, as if it was hurting his ego to want to know about his only friends.

Stacks of files began to dominate the guest bedroom that Sherlock slept in. In all this time, Sherlock still hadn't explored the other rooms in their childhood home. He never grew curious about his old bedroom, or the play room, or the garden outside where he collected small insects. He had the guest bedroom, a bathroom, and the library, all of which suited him fine. He thrived away from human contact, and he no longer turned to harmful drugs in order to seek release. It relieved Mycroft and their mother to see him improve a little.

Sometimes, their mother would walk by the library to get a peek at her youngest son. Every time she lingered at the doorway, she ached to say something, to tear him away from all the science books so that she could have a proper conversation with her estranged son. Sometimes she still saw the little boy, curled up on the armchair with a large hardcover book in his arms, curly dark locks in his face, constantly pushing the hair from before his eyes. She could still hear his little voice, complaining about his unruly hair. She longed to look into his clear ever-changing eyes, to see how they've aged since. She wanted to know how he was doing, his hopes and dreams.

Mrs. Holmes had always wanted the best for her boys. Growing up with an ignorant father and a distant mother had not been good for them. She knew that, and she would never forgive herself for that. Seeing the way that Sherlock had grown to push people away, to become afraid of love and commitment, had scared her.

When Mycroft had told her about John Watson, a little more than a couple years ago, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Mycroft told her about John's history, his personality, his affect on Sherlock's behaviour. She'd always wanted Sherlock to have a friend, and John seemed like the best thing that had come into his life.

Looking at her son, relearning astronomy for John, had made it difficult for her to resist talking to him, comforting him, being _there_ for him. It couldn't be too late to start a relationship with her son, but she knew that he would only push her away. There was no undoing of the damage, no possible way for Sherlock to recover from what had happened many years past.

Sherlock always noticed his mother's silent glances. It was true that he was unobservant of the most obvious things, but feeling his mother's close proximity was not something he could ignore. Of course he wouldn't say anything, wouldn't make any sign of noticing her presence.

_There was nothing to be said._

_Nothing that could persuade him to want a relationship with his mum._

One dreary evening, he noted the date as he was looking up from files and notes. Scraps of papers littered his desk, but through all the chaos, his eyes lingered on the little calendar.

_Early March._

_In June it would be the second anniversary of his "death"._

_Almost two full years of hiding, chasing, searching, longing._

_Only two more assassins to kill._

_Close to finding one._

_Mrs. Hudson's assassin._

_Only a small file on the other assassin._

_The last assassin._

_John's assassin._

Sherlock heaved a long exhale and looked back down at the disorganized desk space. It reminded him of the basement room that he had stayed in during the first year.

_Small, cramped, chaotic._

He remembered back to the many meaningless struggles and breakdowns. The thrill of cocaine, the need for air, for company. All of that was gone now, he had overcome his addiction, he was back in the mansion home of his childhood with Mycroft and his mother.

_But it wasn't what he wanted._

_What he needed._

_And what he needed was Baker Street._

All the files and notes started to mesh together in his mind, become unreadable. Numbers and words collided and created new problems to solve.

_8_

_Oxygen_

_Bach_

_Revenge_

Codes and riddles, everything had a place in the equation, but Sherlock couldn't figure it out. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, tried to look at each word separately. He thought about the small file from his old flat, the files that Mycroft had given John about the assassins living on their street.

_One name stood out._

_One name with very little information._

_Moran._

The mysterious name began to repeat in his brain, coaxing him to figure it out. Who could Moran be? Where was he hiding?

_Nothing._

_He tried to breath, inhale and exhale._

_Oxygen._

_John._

Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he snarled under his breath and stood from the desk. The chair made a loud grinding sound against the floorboards. A shiver went down his spine, the noise was appalling to his ears, his head was pulsing.

He flicked off the lamp and stumbled to his bed in the dark. With the curtains closed, there was no possible way for light to escape through the window pane. Sherlock collapsed onto the mattress, fully dressed, and willed the headache to fade.

_Pulsing._

_Inhale._

_Pulsing._

_Exhale._

_Blink._

Curling in on himself, he clutched the bedsheets to his face and tensed every muscle. The headache continued to linger, pulsing in his forehead and making slumber difficult to achieve.

He didn't want to take medication, he _couldn't_ take any because Mycroft didn't want him to be exposed to anything potentially harmful. Overdose was something that had never crossed his mind, even in the psychotic days of his youth. He had always found illegal drugs to be more useful, much more stimulating and helpful for brainwork. Sherlock was surprised that Mycroft had given him so much freedom over the past few months (following his recovery). Though he knew that it didn't mean that Mycroft wasn't keeping a constant watch. Sherlock knew where all of the hidden cameras were placed around the house, he couldn't be outsmarted by his nosey older brother.

Sherlock began to notice the pain in his forehead ebb and he felt the numb state of unconsciousness begin to overwhelm him. All the tense muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed. Before he was overcome with sleep, he thought about nights back at Baker Street.

_Violin strings._

_Quiet crackle from the fireplace._

_The taste of tea still on his tongue._

_Creaking floorboards above him signalling John's presence. _

_Clock in the kitchen, ticking a steady rhythm. _

_Peace._

_Calm._

_Hateful._

Sherlock was woken by the brief sound of the door to his room, someone was entering. He didn't move or open his eyes, breathing steadily, he recognized the footsteps.

_His mum._

He felt a little more relaxed knowing that it wasn't someone threatening to take his life as he slept. And though he wished that his mother wouldn't look in on him like this, he couldn't blame her…

_Like most human beings, his mum was ruled by emotions._

_Sentiment._

She was trying to be careful and quiet as she made her way to his bedside, the steps were lingering, as if she was determining whether she should turn back or not.

He felt warm breath brush on the side of his face that wasn't burrowed into his pillow. Lips warmed the skin and left the ghost of a kiss as he felt her move away only a few inches. Sherlock remained still, waiting for her to walk back out, he didn't like keeping up the sleeping act like this, it was uncomfortable.

Gentle fingers touched the tips of his hair, smoothing down to the back of his neck. Suppressing a shiver, he tensed under the blankets. He could feel his mother's gaze on him, she reeked of sentiment. Sherlock tried to repel it with detachment.

_Soon, this act won't work. _

_He'd have to open his eyes and look at her._

_Or he'd have to wait for her to leave and face more guilt._

Something in his chest ached to be released, sentiment of some sort probably. This needed to be done. Carefully opening his eyes, he shifted and sat up from the bed. His mother jerked a little, surprised by his sudden movement. She obviously had't realized that she had woken him up.

Just as she stepped back to leave the room, Sherlock spoke. "No," his voice rasped, "Stay". He looked up at her, feeling like a child again, ruled by sentiment and it's traps.

Mrs. Holmes just stood still, frozen in place beside his bed. Her short curly hair was a little messy. It had gone prematurely white since he'd last seen her. In the soft glow from the open doorway, he could make out her solemn and aged expression.

"Mum?" Sherlock spoke, being careful not to let emotion cloud his voice, "I missed you." He had to be careful, he had to breath. His mother came to sit at the edge of his bed and pulled her arms around his shoulders, capturing him in a much needed embrace.

Sherlock laid his forehead on her shoulder, feeling like a child again. But even as a child, he'd never received comfort from his mother like this, he had lucky to even see her, let alone hug her. Her battles with illness had kept her away from being with her boys. It was only after Sherlock left home that her health began to improve, and even then, there was no way to bring him back.

"I missed you too," she said against him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted out, feeling like years of absence would never make up for what he had done, but still needing to get the words out.

His mum pulled away from the hug and looking into his eyes with concern and seriousness. She almost looked… angry.

"Don't ever apologize, Sherlock. You never did anything wrong. I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm the one who's sorry."

Sherlock held onto her tighter, making up for all the years he'd needed her. He thought back to nights where he stood outside his mother's room and wished that he could go inside and see her. He thought back to the nights where he'd wanted a friend, someone to hold onto.

_Someone._

_Anyone._

_Thinking that he'd always be alone._

_Always solitary._

Since he'd come back to this place, his mother had tried to be there, in her own small way. She was a guardian, hidden from sight but not of mind. A physical embodiment of what religious people called "guardian angels".

He felt a little better, knowing that she supported him, that she had always wanted to be there. It was something to keep in mind, something to help him finish off Moriarty, once and for all. Sherlock smiled.


	22. Rache

_John was back on a crime scene. _

_The asphalt cold and damp from a light rain fall._

_The wind was bitter for this time of year._

Lestrade was standing to the side with Sally, deep in conversation about the case. John looked around for any other familiar faces he could find, but alas, everyone else was a stranger.

_Someone was missing._

_The answer to that question was easy, but he didn't want to think of it._

_It was Sherlock… _

_Sherlock was missing._

_The mad genius and his deductions._

The wind was feeling much colder suddenly, John pulled up his coat collar to keep any remaining body warmth. He watched Greg and Sally walk into the old flat with yellow police tape circling the brink walls. The setting was familiar, but John couldn't put a finger on the exact similarity.

Maybe Lestrade and his team wanted to revisit an unsolved case, one of the unfinished ones that had probably puzzled Sherlock in the past. Either way, it didn't matter, though John didn't know what use he could be on a case that even _Sherlock_ couldn't solve.

John walked up the steps to a second floor of the flat, his limp was worse than ever. It had returned after he'd moved in with Harry, and dulled a little whenever he was with Mary Morstan… but now that he was on his own again, the limp was back with a vengeance. His leg was stiff, it made every step painful. Biting his lower lip against the strain, he put weight onto the railing and caught up to the rest of the team.

Everyone was in motion, talking around what appeared to be a corpse, a murder victim. John peered over the shoulders of his colleagues to see the body of a young man.

Though Lestrade hadn't told John any of the information about the mysterious victim, it wasn't difficult for him to deduce the scene before him.

_The man's body was pale with blood loss and death._

_The face seemed vaguely familiar, possibly a criminal from crime watch._

_A military man, sniper by the looks of it._

_Muscle tone, body type, and clothing suggested that he was middle class and out of the army for no more than four years. _

_An ugly pool of blood had begun to stain the wood floor and dry up into a sticky mess._

_It had been a day since the man was killed._

John hadn't seen a murder in a long while, he hadn't been on a case since the one with the missing children.

_Mercury on the candy wrappers._

_The girl's shrill scream._

The bitterness of the cold room made John shiver, he turned from the crowded corpse and looked out the window. Directly across the street from this window was the sitting room windows at 221B Baker Street.

For a moment, John's heart stopped and everything was suddenly white noise. His eyes widened and he looked back down at the dead man. Beside his outstretched arm was a large metal rifle, precisely designed for long distance shooting. The man was going to shoot through this window, across the street, and into the window of the opposite building.

_In this case, John's flat._

John turned away from the dead man and the window, he needed to clear his head, he needed to get out of here. But as soon as he looked towards the wall beside the doorway, he felt the blood leave his face.

_On the wall, written in dried blood was a single word. _

**_Rache_**

John woke up to hear a clattering on the first floor of the flat. His heart was beating out of his chest, he put his quivering hand into his sweaty hair and thought about the possible reasons for the noise.

All the possibilities that came to his mind scared him, made him fish around in his nightstand's drawer for his handgun. Wiping his clammy palms against his pyjama pants, he gripped the gun in his left hand and plucked up the courage to seek out the intruder.

Making as little noise as he could, he gentling descended the staircase to the second floor of the flat. His leg was more sore than ever, it pained him to take every step. Every bit of pressure that he put on his leg rattled his nerves and make him shake even more. Fear, pain, weakness all meshed together and made him doubt that he could ever win a fight against whoever forced the front door open.

No-one was in the sitting room, kitchen, or hallway. He thought about entering Sherlock's room, just to see if anyone could be hiding in there. But John was more overwhelmed with the fear of ever going in there, the intruder _had_ to be on the first floor.

After taking a few steps down towards the first floor, he heard a sound that made him drop the gun and race down towards the source. In the dim light, he saw the shaking figure of Mary, she stumbled over the steps on the staircase. John strode down to her and touched her on the shoulder. Taking her hands away from her face, Mary looked up at him and immediately clutched onto him, there was pale fear in her eyes.

She whimpered into his shoulder and held onto him with all her strength. John was bewildered and silent as he tried to calm Mary down. He couldn't understand a single word that she had tried to speak, every breath she took was ragged from fear and exhaustion. It was clear that something bad had happened, she shook in his arms. A hallway light flickered on and John could hear the muffled steps of Mrs. Hudson in her slippers and nightgown.

Mrs. Hudson was saying something, she laid a hand on John's shoulder to get his attention, but he couldn't hear a word she said. John looked back down at Mary and tried to calm himself down so that he could get a decent sentence out of her.

"Mary… darling, what happened?" He stroked the messy blond hair out of her face. Mary blinked up at John and tried to calm herself down.

"I'll get a kettle boiling," Mrs. Hudson murmured sleepily behind them. John could hear her shuffling back into her little kitchen.

"John…" Mary began, her breathing came out in hiccups as she played with a piece of fabric from his t-shirt. "Back home… someone broke in… they didn't really take anything… I think…" She sniffed in a breath and wiped her face. He looked down at her appearance and noticed that she was in her pyjamas and dressing gown.

_How had she gotten a cab at this time of night?_

_Tuesday morning, no less._

John took her hand and led her to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, he pulled out a chair for her and sat her down. Mrs. Hudson put milk and sugar on the table before them and offered a small smile.

"So, someone broke in… while you were sleeping?" John offered the question, he would have to tell Lestrade about this.

_Hopefully it had nothing to do with Moriarty's web._

_Though, it wouldn't surprise him at any rate._

"Yes…" Mary spoke, receiving a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson and taking a quick sip. "I heard rustling around, and I was so afraid to go see… I didn't know what would happen. But I had the phone with me, I was ready to call the police… When the intruder left, I looked into the rest of the house to find everything broken and torn apart. It was as if someone was looking for something, but I haven't got a clue."

"You did call the police though, right?" John asked her, giving her hand a squeeze.

"Yes, I did. They're already there. I had to come here, though. I needed to see you. I needed…" She looked up at him with concern, "I needed to make sure that you were alright."

John felt his heart fall in his chest, looking into Mary's eyes made him feel even worse. It hurt him to know that she cared so much, he only wished that he hadn't put her in this danger.

"Of course I'm fine… Why didn't you call instead?"

"I did, but you didn't pick up… again, I was scared that something happened to you. When I came over in the police car, I forced my key into the lock and didn't have the strength. When I got inside, I wanted to find you." Mary looked down at her tea, shame and frustration coloured her features.

"It's alright, love, we'll sort it out. I'll get Lestrade on it." John tried to speak but it came out disconnected and monotone. He couldn't find the right emotions to express.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the two of them and then put a gentle arm around Mary's shoulder. She was usually an expert at finding the right words to say to someone. Mrs. Hudson treated Mary like her own child, just as she treated John. But in this moment, she didn't have anything to say, and John didn't either.

When the sun rose, John called Lestrade and told him about the break-in at Mary's house. After giving him all the information he could, Mary accompanied John back to her place. The ride in the cab was long and silent, she held onto his hand and looked out of the window on her side.

After the long drive, they arrived at Mary's house. A police car waited outside on the driveway, Lestrade was talking to another police officer and looking at his phone. After paying the cabbie, John took Mary to meet the Detective Inspector.

John hadn't wanted Greg Lestade to meet his girlfriend like this, but there wasn't much he could do. And after today's events, he knew that she wouldn't be his girlfriend for much longer. It was becoming too dangerous.

Mary talked about the events of the night before, Lestade took notes and asked her questions. John put his hands in his pockets and thought back to the vivid dream he'd had last night.

_The dream with the dead man._

_The gun._

_The window._

_The blood on the wall._

_Rache._

He tried to blink the memories of that dream away but it just didn't seem to fade in the slightest. He wanted to believe that there was no value in it, but the more he thought about the word "rache", the more he felt like it was his brain telling him that he wasn't looking at the facts straight.

_Rache._

_German for revenge._

_Revenge for what?_

"John!" He heard his own name and blinked out of his stupor, Lestrade and Mary were both looking at him with concern and frustration. "John, mate, are you listening?" Lestrade was speaking to him, making himself loud and clear. John nodded and apologized. Lestrade told him that Mycroft was on the phone for him.

John looked down at the phone in Greg's hand and took it, putting it up to his ear and moving alway from the others.

"Hello?" He spoke coldly, knowing that this would be Mycroft's way of telling John that this was all his own fault. He's tell John that he needed to break up with Mary now, before things got any worse.

"John, as you must be well aware, I'm not calling you in regards to your health."

John rolled his eyes and bit down an insult that he wanted to yell at Mycroft, "Yes, I know, it's all my fault."

There was a pause on the other side of the line, "Correct, but I also wanted to mention that this is not Inspector Lestrade's business. Moriarty's employees would stop at nothing to destroy his reputation, so, in light of resent events, please take my warnings into consideration. In the future, do not bring Inspector Lestrade into any personal cases. We both know that you do not want to endanger any of your close friends."

_Now it was John's turn to be silent. _

_He didn't know what to say._

Without hesitation, he hung up on Mycroft and walked back towards Mary and Lestrade. "What did the man want?" Lestrade asked him as he was handed back his phone.

John hesitated and looked over at Mary, "He just wanted to know how I am. You know, it has been about two years… I guess he wanted to know how I was holding up."

"Why didn't he just call you on your own phone?" Lestrade questioned.

"My phone's dead, I left it back at the flat. Speaking of which, I should probably be heading back." John looked over at the neighbouring house, Harry's house. He noticed that her car was not there, she'd be at work right now, thankfully.

"I'd go over to the school, but I think I should stay here for now, right Inspector?" Mary inquired, looking over at Lestrade.

"Yes, we're going to need you for further questioning," Lestrade mentioned as he started walking away with Mary. Looking back he called out, "See you later, John. We should go out for another drink some time."

After waving Lestrade off and limping away, John called up a taxi to go back home. The weather was unseasonably cool this morning, it reminded him of the dream again. He put his hands in his coat pockets and waited at the curb.

When a cab finally pulled up, he got in an told the cabbie his destination. Looking out the window as the cab turned away from Mary's house, he noticed another one of those odd men standing a couple houses down. He couldn't see the face of the shadowy figure, looking away from the window, the word "rache" repeated in his mind.


	23. The Strange Musician

Sherlock stepped out of bed; it was past midnight, close to dawn. His footsteps were slow and gentle against the wooden floorboards. Mycroft and Mum would be sound asleep, this was the only time that Sherlock found he could be truly alone. Mycroft's security systems and cameras wouldn't find him tonight, he'd make sure to stay out of sight, undetected.

The windows were partly open to let in a cool spring breeze. Sherlock moved into the dim hallway as he left his door partly open. The guest room door had always had a habit of creaking loudly, echoing through the vast empty halls. Looking down the dark hallway, he made his way to the one room he thought he'd never enter again.

His throat felt dry and thick when he tried to swallow down his fear. An emotion that had always interested and annoyed Sherlock, it was a part of his mind and body that he couldn't control. He was already recognizing the familiar signs of "fear".

_Fear._

_An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone/ something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat. _

_A feeling of anxiety concerning the outcome of something or the safety and well-being of someone._

_Avoid or put off doing something because one is afraid._

_Fear of revealing deleted memories of the past._

_Fear of remembering._

_Fear of sentiment, emotion._

_Fear of never going back, opening a door to something that should be left alone._

_Something left… abandoned._

Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath and pulled his hands into fists at his sides. The palms were damp with perspiration, an side-effect of "fear". The nerves in his body were fragile, making every step more painful and uncomfortable.

Biting his lip and blinking at the closed door at the end of the hall, he hesitated, concentrating on the importance of this task. He wouldn't ask for someone else to do this, Mycroft would only laugh at him, at his inability to overcome his fear of that… room.

Before thinking about it anymore, Sherlock was standing in front of the the door.

_The room of his childhood._

_Erased from his memories with very good reason._

With care, he turned the door handle until it made a quiet _click_. Pulling the handle towards his own body, he looked into the open doorway.

As if waking from a dream, everything about this place filled his subconscious. He had remembered everything's place, every object was in the same spot he remembered putting them many years ago. It wasn't as bad as he had expected, in fact, he smiled fondly at the only sanctuary of his childhood.

He stepped inside the barrier of his limitations and fears, he was back to being the Sherlock Holmes that he'd built himself to be over many years of callused emotions and separation from human thought and feeling. The weakness and dependance that had come with the past two years alone seemed to vanish.

_He was ready to go back._

_More than ready._

With an uplifted heart, he strolled into the cold, empty space and searched for memories. He wanted to breath everything in, even the hateful memories that he'd erased.

Somehow, the memories of this room had never quite disappeared from his mind. They had probably only been hiding somewhere in his mind-palace, somewhere he'd never bother to look.

Sherlock looked over at a familiar object leaning against the far wall. Crouching down to pick up the case, he grasped it by the handle and walked it to the side of the musty bed. He opened the case to reveal an old, well-worn and used violin. The velvet encasing the instrument had faded and fallen apart from years of use. The violin itself was dulled and scratched in places, carelessly abandoned by the reckless child he used to be.

_The child that people insisted he still was._

Pulling the violin out of it's case, he positioned it against his shoulder and chin. The action was automatic from years of practice. It was comfortable against him, an extension of his mind and body.

The stings were not tuned, years of abandonment made it squeak in protest. Pulling the violin away from himself, Sherlock tightened the strings until it sounded right. He played a quiet song, something familiar. It all came naturally, creating a flood of thoughts.

_The second assassin._

_Have to save Mrs. Hudson._

_Find the third assassin._

_Save John._

_Go home._

Sherlock had hoped to achieve more in the amount of time he had already been in hiding. Almost a full two years, and he still had only managed to find and kill one. Lestrade was safe now, he had his job back. But there was still Mrs. Hudson and John to save, still two assassins to find and kill. While Sherlock had used every moment for research, he still felt like he didn't have enough. Mycroft had begun to take a lot more into his own hands, he had his own men working on Moriarty's web. Sherlock was left with two people to find, but Mycroft had still insisted on doing most of the work for him.

It was tiresome, to spend all these years trying to outdo each other. Childhood games and tricks had turned into sibling rivalry, and now they despised each other.

Their mother had entrusted Mycoft with caring for Sherlock. He was the one to answer all of Sherlock's questions, he was the one to serve him meals, clean up after him, disinfect any scrapes or cuts, occasionally, Mycroft even played pirates with him.

In the end, Sherlock would learn to blame his older brother for being too nosey and mothering. He'd never understand the importance of the role Mycroft had to play while their parents led their own distant lives. But that seemed fine with Mycroft, he didn't mind the criticism, he'd always watch out for Sherlock.

It was odd, to think that Sherlock had become so dependant on Mycroft, even with desperate attempts at independence, he'd always seemed to find his way back into Mycroft's care. And Sherlock hated him for it.

He moved away from thoughts of Mycroft and began to think of the Grimm's Fairy Tales again.

_The stories._

_The clues._

_Like codes._

_Small clues and codes to leave Sherlock with more questions._

_Moriarty's final game, his final assault._

_To test how clever Sherlock really was._

Sherlock no longer cared if his violin would wake anyone else in the house, he left every note take him farther into his own mind.

_8_

_Oxygen._

_The Strange Musician._

It was all about the story. A story from the book that Sherlock had found in the little girl's room. An envelop with red-wax, "Grimm's Fairy Tales". Thinking back to the strange edition, he thought about the work he'd down, all the nights he spelt trying to solve this puzzle, keeping secrets from John. In the end, all he had needed was the framed Periodic Table in his room, the book of Fairy Tales, and a red marker.

"The Strange Musician" was a story about a violinist, alone and looking for a companion. The violinist's music attracts three different wild beasts, all of which he outsmarts, and all of which plan to have revenge on him. It is only in the end that the violinist finds a companion, someone who scares off the beasts and listens to his beautiful music.

In many ways, the story was Moriarty's way of mocking Sherlock. A personal jab at his ego. The story implied Sherlock as the violinist for obvious reasons, and the companion as John Watson. Yet, while the story had a happy resolve, Moriarty had done everything in his power to make sure the story remained a fairy tale, not reality.

_Not Sherlock's reality._

_And that was why John's life was in his hands._

_Why John's life had been in Moriarty and Sherlock's hands before._

_Easily manipulated and disposable._

_A pawn in the game._

_But a pawn worth living for._

Sherlock's music came to an abrupt stop. He opened his eyes to realize that he'd been playing for quite a while, the sun was already peeking through the small window. He pulled the violin away from his shoulder and looked over the room, every surface.

There was a bookshelf in every room of the house, Sherlock's room had a smaller shelf filled with Science books. Journals and textbooks on Chemistry and Biology. A thin layer of dust covered everything that he could see. This room had been dusted often since his departure, but not often enough to make the room look un-aged and polished.

There was a pile of empty jars against the opposite wall, jars that used to be filled with small insects and dead specimens. Experiments that had been created by a younger boy, someone quite different from the man he'd grown into today.

_What used to be innocent, young and alive…_

_Was now calloused, aged, and unforgiving._

_Still a strange and lonely violinist._

_But it was different now, because he had known companionship._

_He'd known sentiment and friendship and love._

_And even that had been taken away from him._

Putting down the old violin, he closed the case and left it on the mattress. After looking around for a last time, he decided to leave this place be.

_He wouldn't return._

_At least not here._

Sherlock walked pack to the doorway and didn't look back. He didn't even bother closing the door behind himself. The others would know in the morning, they's see that he'd finally gone inside.

_That he'd faced his fear and overcome it._

_And now it was time to find the assassin._

Striding back to the guest room, he opened the door and immediately walked towards the disorganized desk. Files and papers littered the whole surface and made his mind whirl around in unsteady twists and turns. His fingers greedily touched the papers and found what he was looking for.

Holding up the crumpled map, he zeroed in on the distinction of the second assassin. He'd have to leave the country this time, but he was ready.

_By the weekend, he'd have the assassin cold and dead and finished. _

_Mrs. Hudson would be safe._

_And he'd be one step closer to home._

_To John._


	24. The Abandoned Room

Things dissolved pretty quickly after the mysterious break-in at Mary's house. John had become more irritable, determined to keep Mary with him. She had always been very good at reading John's feelings, seeing through his mixed emotions. Of course she'd try to talk to him about Moriarty, Sherlock, the strange things that had happened as soon as John had moved back to Baker Street.

Mary had told John it would be best to leave, to move out of the flat at Baker Street before things got any worse. But whenever she brought it up, John would overreact and leave in a huff. Leaving Baker Street wasn't an option, John would never leave this place completely, it was impossible. Just the thought of it sent uncomfortable shivers down his spine, made him feel more alone. Sherlock may not be here anymore, but something of him had been left behind in this place. Possibly it was because John hadn't touched most of Sherlock's things, he'd never cleared out Sherlock's room. Mrs. Hudson was the one to remove experiments from the kitchen and sitting room, but everything else had remained the same.

John didn't tell Mary that Mycroft had spoken to him, that he had tried to break them up. He also didn't tell her that Moriarty was dead. He could… but John didn't want to trust Mycroft, he felt like something was _still_ being kept from him. Mycroft was good at keeping secrets, but John could tell when there was something left unsaid. The weighty presence of secrets would cloud the room, it was always written in Mycroft's expressions, but John wouldn't say anything, it would just make things worse. Mycroft may have his own skills in deduction, but John was learning.

In truth, John knew that if he _truly _loved Mary, he should give her up. It was the heroic thing to do, after all. But after losing so much… he just didn't want to lose her presence in his life. Mary was the only thing keeping him from letting despair take over, the same despair that he experienced a few years ago, before knowing Sherlock. It was a time when nightmares of war clouded his subconscious, unlike now, with the fresh nightmares of Sherlock's death. _That_ was a different battle entirely.

Mary eventually stopped fighting him. Her visits became less, but she still tried to treat him with the same fondness she had when they first met. John tried to be on his best behaviour, but sometimes an innocent comment would be taken the wrong way and John would end up alone again for the night.

Mycroft called a couple times, but John ignored the calls. He already knew what Mycroft would say, it was always the same thing.

_Leave Mary Morstan before it's too late._

Eventually, Mary came by the flat, an apology in her eyes. Her speech was very brief. In short, she was leaving town to accept a job offer in Cardiff. She left his life with a simple goodbye and few questions answered, no promise of a return.

_Just like Sherlock left._

_No questions answered._

_No time for comment._

_Almost just as permanent too._

John never asked, but he had a feeling that Mycroft had something to do with it. He loathed the man, but perhaps it was for the best…

_Or, that's what he kept telling himself._

John was sitting in his armchair one evening, his eyes lingered on the chair across from him, the place where Sherlock used to sit. His eyes grew tired as he tried to remember Sherlock's face.

He could no longer recall the colour of Sherlock's eyes. He could only recall the black depths of his pupils. Dark, dull, dead. The irises would remain a mystery, something left with the rest of the unsolved cases.

He also couldn't remember Sherlock's smile. It had always been a rare occurrence, something reserved for only the best of times. But when Sherlock _did _smile, it was always bright and true. But even that was fading from John's mind.

Putting his head in his hands, John closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the silence in the flat. He was completely alone now, the only two people he cared about were now gone forever.

He thought about calling Harry, seeing how she was doing… But he didn't know if it was dangerous to contact her. After all, she had been friends with Mary, and she was related to John. He dreaded the thought of losing his sister, the last person he had.

John inhaled and looked out the window across from him. There was very little to see outside, the sky was cloudy and grey, a soft rain was falling. He looked back down at the tea beside his armchair. Steam was no longer rising from the mug, everything was… cold.

_Deathly cold._

_No._

_This wasn't right._

_This isn't the end of it._

John licked his lips and blinked away from the mug of cold tea. That wasn't important now. Instead, he looked over his shoulder in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

_He needed to do this._

_He needed to face this._

Every muscle tensed in John's arms as he clutched onto the armrests of the chair. He wanted to push himself up and walk over to the doorway, he wanted to see the last markings of Sherlock's existence.

_He needed to make himself believe that Sherlock had been real._

_That he had been there, living and breathing._

_He needed to see the disorder, the chaos that Sherlock had left behind._

_Maybe…_

_Just maybe…_

_Opening that doorway could bring back the memories._

_The cases._

_How many were there?_

_The fighting._

_What did they even fight about? _

_Was it ever really important?_

_The music._

_Especially the music. _

_What did a violin even sound like?_

This was the vital moment, the decision. Without pause, John stood up, leaning onto one of the arms on the chair for support. His leg throbbed with fresh pain, getting worse with every day.

John winced and moved away from the armchair, standing straight and maintaining his balance. He remembered back to the military, the orders, the strict instructions.

_John was in control this time, the master of his own fate. _

_No-one else was going to tell him what to do now._

Taking a step forward, the pain from his leg crawled up to his spine, he bit onto his lip and looked at the distance between his body and the door to Sherlock's abandoned bedroom. Normally, that distance was insignificant, but today, it seemed like miles away.

John inhaled and took another solid step, his feet planted flat onto the floor. He tried to move faster this time, less robotic. The pain seemed to escalate, but he took a couple more steps and felt a little stronger, adrenaline was in his favour.

With each step, the door seemed like it was at the same distance as before, as if he hadn't moved at all. John felt like he wasn't completely there, in this moment.

_It was too much like a dream. _

In fact, it reminded him of dreams and nightmares that he had had recently. Dreams where he was suspended in time, making his way to this door, the same door to Sherlock's room. It felt like there was something hiding, something missing, and John had to open to door to find out. These dreams always ended with John getting inches away, the handle almost at his finger tips, but then he would wake up.

_This time, it was real. _

_He'd open the door. _

_He had to._

John took another step, looked up from the floor to see that the door finally closer this time. It eased his mind to know that he was making progress, getting closer.

The fear that had clouded his mind for the past two years had now cleared away, the simple barrier was only a small door handle. Before he could think about anything else, John was standing right in front of the door, inches from his finger tips yet again.

_He wasn't going to wake up this time._

_This was real._

There was white-noise surrounding him, it threatened to make him turn back, try another day. John lifted his left hand to reach for the handle and noticed a tremor that stemmed from his wrist. He breathed in and out, concentrating on the task before him.

_So simple._

_Yet._

_No._

_It wasn't._

John reached out his right hand and felt the smooth woodgrain under his fingertips. Touching the surface of the door was helping, it was reassurance. Finally gripping the handle, John forgot the tremor, and the limp, and Mary, and the fear and the handle, he heard the click and pushed the door open with both hands.

Almost as soon as John had gained his bearings, he lost everything again. The coldness creeped under his skin and deepened, consuming him and making it difficult to breath. John felt his heart in his chest, it was weighty and powerful, beating with fresh fear and falling down into his stomach. He felt as if everything was failing, his mind and body, everything.

He looked into the room and couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was unreal and scary, one of the most frightening things he'd ever witnessed. In that moment, the strong army doctor was gone, and in his place was a fragile child.

Gripping onto the side of the threshold, John tried to find balance, he leaned into the cold frame and let the cold make him numb to the bone. His eyes didn't look away from what was before him, breathing laboriously, he felt his eyes begin to blur. Despite the sudden weakness, he spoke clearly through the thickness in his lungs and throat.

"Sherlock."


	25. Tick Tock

It didn't take Sherlock long to pack away his belongings. His deadline was getting closer, and he was well prepared for what was going to come next. Putting away the stack of Astronomy journals, he thought about where he could go, what he could do. Sherlock was sure that Mum and Mycroft wouldn't know about his sudden departure, and he'd have to keep it that way. The last thing he needed was Mycroft tearing him away from this mission for good, keeping him locked up without privacy or freedom.

After putting away the science journals, Sherlock went back to the bedroom to sort out the files for the last two assassins. With luck, there'd only be one assassin left by the end of the night.

He pulled a backpack from under the bed, already filled with essential provisions such as the files, clothing, and a cell phone. It was already beginning to darken outside the window by the time that he was ready. Glaring at the setting sun, Sherlock forced the small bundle of papers into the pack and shrugged on his coat.

The course black fabric was reassuring, something that reminded him of days back at Baker Street. Of course, this coat was a little different from his original coat, which was somewhere in Molly's flat right now, waiting for Sherlock to retrieve it and rejoin the living.

_The thought of it all sent new adrenaline through his veins._

_By the end of the night he'd be another step closer to home._

_Another step closer to Baker Street, to John._

Pulling the backpack over his arm, Sherlock strode to the wide bedroom window. By now, the sun was only a small line of bright yellow, orange and red on the horizon. The sky had gone from purple to deep blue and black.

Sherlock slid open the window as wide as he could, inhaling the fresh air with a smile on his face.

_There was no turning back now._

But then there was a small sound behind him. Sherlock resisted the urge to turn around, afraid of being discovered. The last thing he needed was for someone to slow him down.

_Not now._

"Sherlock"

Grimacing at the sound of his mother's voice, he turned to face her. The smile that he had worn only moments ago was now replaced with guilt… shame. It took a moment for him to realize that he was repeating his past, recreating a moment that he dreaded to think about.

_The moment he left home, as an adolescent. _

_The evening that he'd left his family behind to start his own life in London._

_But this time, he wasn't alone as he escaped. _

_This time, his mother was watching._

Sherlock looked towards his mother, faced her with the bravery he longed for as a child, as a teenager, and even as an adult. Pain was written in his mum's expression, her arms hugged her chest as if her heart was physically aching. But she stood tall, her head high.

Taking a couple steps towards her, he reached for her shoulders. Grasping her thin arms, he embraced her and kissed her on the forehead. It was quick, Sherlock didn't want to linger. His mother understood, he could see it light up her pale eyes in a way that he hadn't seen in a very long time.

_A time long forgotten. _

"I love you," his mum said, smiling up at her boy. Sherlock paused, the proper words didn't want to form in his mouth. He returned a small smile and cupped the side of her face in his hand, something that he'd only done once before. When Mrs. Hudson has been hurt by the American in their flat at Baker Street.

In this moment, his mother reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. They were both very gentle, devoted to him in a very quiet and sincere way. It was… nice. The thought of being loved brought a warm feeling to his chest, it was a feeling that he'd always wondered about and hadn't experienced for as long as he could remember.

"I love you too," Sherlock said, the phrase sounded so odd coming from his own lips, but he quickly looked away and turned back to the open window. Putting a leg out onto the ledge, he found the right crevice that would support him as he climbed down the side of the house.

"Be careful," his mum said behind him. Sherlock looked down at the ground far below the window. Without responding to her, he climbed down towards the bottom.

_Being careful was not a promise that he could make…_

_Or keep for that matter._

By the time that Sherlock reached Cardiff, it was nearing midnight. He sped up the car as he drove, hardly caring for speed limits and road restrictions. Driving was an occupation that Sherlock hardly needed to practice, while he lived in London, taxis were the main form of transportation. Occasionally, he'd take the tube, but only when there was no other way. (He hated having idiots in such close proximity on to him on the train, expelling toxic carbon dioxide and spreading bacteria. A breeding ground for stupidity and illness.) Tonight would be an exception to the rules of the road though, it was urgent that Sherlock find the assassin before the man discovered that Sherlock was on his trail.

It wouldn't take Sherlock long to find this one, in fact, it would be much easier than when he searched for the first one. By now, Sherlock was already ahead of the game, he was already looking for information on the third and last assassin. Though, unfortunately, he only had the small useless files from John. The same small package that had collected dust in their flat at Baker Street for the past two years. It felt like it had been ages since Sherlock crept back into the flat and collected the files from the desk. He could hardly remember seeing John, though admittedly, it was difficult to see anything in the dark. All that he could remember was the aged features on the solitary sleeping figure, his only friend.

_John._

Turning the car onto an empty side street, Sherlock swerved to a stop and collected his small pack of belongings. First, he'd find the assassin. Next, he'd find somewhere to stay.

It all sounded like an easy task to him, like a materials list to one of his own experiments. But this was quite different, the outcome much more vital than any hypothesis being proven correct.

Leaving the car, Sherlock carefully walked down the silent street, aware of every sound and movement.

_The dripping from an eaves._

_The distant sound of a car door closing._

_Brief flicker of light coming from an old street lamp._

_A homeless cat, making it's way towards a dark alley._

The night was cool, much cooler than Sherlock had expected. He pulled the collar of his coat up against the faint wind. A chill ran through his body as he felt for the gun hooked to his belt.

All the facts and clues ran through his mind, it started to become too distracting but Sherlock shifted his thoughts of Mrs. Hudson, John, home so that the disorder and chaos that plagued him no longer threatened to pull at his attention.

This wasn't London, but Sherlock knew exactly where to go. He'd looked over maps for hours, memorizing every street corner and shop. Mycroft had provided him with a collection of different maps, each one specializing in a different area of the United Kingdom. The map of Cardiff was heavily marked with pen and red marker, each possible hide-out was labeled with care.

Sherlock looked at the intersecting street signs before him and turned down onto a street that was very dimly lit. This was the most likely location out of the numerous other ones on the map, and Sherlock was sure that the man was close at hand.

Drug dealers and addicts littered the alleys in this neighbourhood, Sherlock could tell by the smell in the air and the markings on the brink walls alongside him. It was most likely that the assassin was a dealer, he'd be unsuspecting on a night like this, Sherlock would have him dead in seconds.

There was the faint sound of discussion coming from an alleyway only a block ahead, Sherlock already began to feel his pulse quicken, eyes wide in anticipation.

_Only a block away from the assassin._

_The killer._

_Only a block away from saving Mrs. Hudson's life._

_One step closer to going home._

After turning the corner and finding the source of the noise, he peered through a crevice in the wall and waited for the rugged man to exit the alley with a new stash of drugs up his sleeve.

The assassin was alone now, counting notes and putting them away in his breast pocket. His back was turned away from Sherlock's view, it was impossible to see if the man had a gun or any sort of weapon on hand.

_Now was the time._

_This was it._

Sherlock stepped forward and pulled the cold handgun from his belt. The man stilled from his crouched position in the corner of the alley, a hand was hovering over his trouser pocket.

"I knew you'd be alive," the man said in a gruff voice, thick with caution. "The big man said that you was smart. Not smart as the Professor, no, but smart enough to fool the rest of the world."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond, he was shocked by what the man had said. He didn't want to believe a word of it, he didn't want to believe that they knew all along, that… they could have possibly been playing him the whole time. Sacrificing employees wouldn't have mattered to Moriarty, he only cared about his own skin. And now, Moriarty was dead and he'd left his best men with the job of killing each and every one of the people whom Sherlock cared about. Maybe they had just been waiting for the right time to finish him off, maybe they were watching him right now.

Sherlock fought the urge to look behind himself, see if he could discover anyone watching him. But it was probably a trick, a way to pull his attention away from the assassin.

Raising the gun into view, Sherlock readied his hand, finger on the trigger. The assassin could hear him, slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder and into the barrel of the gun in Sherlock's steady hand. A smile spread across his face and Sherlock felt terror curl up his spine and send adrenaline through his blood stream.

"Moran sends his greetings," the man said, a faint laugh in his throat.

Sherlock swallowed as the thickness in his own throat, willing himself the pull the trigger.

_He had to do this._

_He had to kill the man._

The assassin seemed to sense Sherlock's faltering faith in himself, and just as he was about to throw his head back and laugh, a flood of emotions and images raced through Sherlock's mind.

_Images of Mrs. Hudson._

_Of John._

_Especially John._

_Nightmares of death and destruction._

_Alone._

_Both of them…_

_Gone._

"Tick tock," The man grunted a cold and sinister laugh.

_Alone._

_Alone._

_ALONE._

Sherlock pulled the trigger and watched the man collapse forward onto the cold, wet ground. The laughter was dead as soon as it had started, and so was the man himself. Sherlock carefully pulled the body over to get a look at his face. The eyes were still open, cold and dead, pupils blown. Blood distorted the man's face, dripping from his gnarled flesh and pooling onto the concrete.

_Sherlock couldn't believe that he'd done it. _

_He'd killed the man._

Stepping towards the man who had been assigned to kill Mrs. Hudson, he could already smell the blood merging with the stench of weed and recent rainfall. He thought about what the man had said in his final moment.

_Moran sends his greetings._

_Moran._

_Who was this Moran?_

_The last assassin?_

Sherlock's eyes followed the trail of fresh blood from the man's neck as it crawled down his chest. The dead man's coat was open, revealing a small piece of paper from inside a hidden pocket. Sherlock pulled a small stack of photos from the pocket, turning them over to see the images. They were splattered in the dead man's blood, Sherlock ignored the sensation of slick blood on his fingers and recognized the face in the photographs.

In that moment, it felt as if his heart felt as if it was no longer beating and incredibly heavy. Sherlock thumbed through the images in his hands and felt fear take him. To his dismay, the same face was in every photo. Sherlock had never been so unwilling to see that face as he was in this moment, in these images.

_John._

_Tick tock. _

Without a second thought, Sherlock put his gun in his pocket and ran out of the alley as fast as he could. The blood from the photographs had become sticky on his hands, beginning to dry onto his skin. He pushed the images into his pocket.

_He had to get away from here._

_He had to find the last assassin._

_Moran._

_Moran sends his greetings._

_In the form of photos._

_Photos of John Watson._

It was a threat. And for all that Sherlock knew, Moran was watching John in this moment, his hand on the trigger. One of the photos in the pile had been of John, looking out of the window from the flat on Baker Street. That photo would have been taken from a window of the flat across the street.

_Someone was watching John from that window._

_Waiting for the chance to set the target and release. _

_Tick tock_.

**End of Part 2**


	26. Elsewhere - Moran

**Beginning of Part 3**

"Tell me, do you miss him?"

Sebastian tore his dagger from the wooden table and chewed at the inside of his mouth. He examined the markings left behind from the knife, a chaotic pattern of chipped wood. Sliding his thumb along the edge of the blade, the friction threatened to dig into his skin. It was time to sharpen the weapon, or get a new one, a better one.

"Well?" The woman's voice echoed off the walls.

_I'd stab her now, if I didn't have a blunt blade._

Sebastian threw the dagger back into the wooden table, he dug down into the woodgrain as far as he could go. The force of the motion had made the Adler woman jump in her chair across from him. A cruel smile spread across his face, he looked up into her eyes and could smell fear. Her expression was neutral, not as frightened as he had hoped.

"Why are you here, Irene?"

The woman breathed a laugh and slide her hand onto the table and plucked a torn photo from the pile. Sebastian felt more and more agitated with each second that she took a breath.

_He wanted her gone away from here._

_Or he wanted her dead._

"I'm here to check up on you. Jimmy's secret little pet can't be alone forever." Irene smirked and looked away from the photo in her hand. "What do you think he'd say? If he found out what a bad pet you are?"

"Shut up," Sebastian murmured, grinding his teeth together as he gripped the blade handle and pulled it from the table. This time, a large chunk of wood tumbled onto the ground, leaving a gaping hole in the wooden surface. "Why do you care?" he kept his voice low, calm, for fright that the dead professor might hear their conversation, wherever he was...

_You're stupid._

_You'll always be ordinary, a play thing._

_Something to be abused._

_To follow orders._

_A pet._

"I care because I knew him, Moran. I _knew_ Jim, _really_ knew him. And I know that you are better than that."

"You don't know. You could never know."

"Really?"

Sebastian stood from his stool and threw the dagger at the opposite wall. With his hands curled into fists, he turned his back to Irene and moved towards a large bulletin board, covered in maps and photos.

Picture of Dr. John Watson littered the wall, different angles, different days, different locations. By now, Sebastian could see the doctor's face behind his eyelids. He knew every line, every curve, every follicle and pore.

He wanted to kill the man, finish him, long and slow and painful. Something that would make Jim proud.

_Jim loved pain._

A cold hand rested on his shoulder and he tensed, turning toward the woman behind him. Irene Adler was indeed beautiful, but right now, Sebastian only saw all of her flaws. The creases on her forehead, a couple strands of grey hair, smile lines on either side of her mouth. Even the beautiful Irene Adler wasn't perfect, she aged like everyone else. Makeup couldn't hide everything, and Irene knew it. He could see it in her eyes, she hated herself.

_Maybe they had that in common. _

Sebastian Moran stooped down to her level, eye to eye. Irene Adler kept still and silent, her mouth was pursed into a thin line.

_Even lipstick couldn't hide her thin, ugly lips. _

He _had_ to say something, anything. Looking back down at her thin lips, he reached out to her and slid his calloused thumb across her lips. The red lipstick smeared off of her mouth and made his finger sticky. Looking back into her eyes, he saw a small break in her defences.

_She was a perfect display of fear and weakness._

_Completely controllable. _

_A puppet._

_A pet._

Sebastian stepped away from her and laughed into the silence. The sound echoed into the dark room and sounded sinister to his own ears. The Adler woman was still as a statue, unmoving, her expression didn't change. It was a mask of fear.

He had to admit, he liked this power… this control that he had over her. It was the first time that he could actually scare someone, control them and tell them what to do.

_It started with his father. An abusive junkie._

_Than it was the military._

_Than Jim Moriarty._

_But now he was free._

_No longer controlled by anyone else._

_It was invigorating and terrifying at the same time._

Sebastian pulled out a cigarette and flicked the lighter. For a moment, the darkness was illuminated by the flash of fire, but when the cigarette caught the flame, only a faint glow took it's place. The taste and smell made him feel a little better.

"Who's killing off my men?" he spoke as he sucked in another mouthful of smoke. Irene Adler was silent, he could almost hear her heartbeat in the silence that had grown."Who's been playing me?" He threw down the cigarette in exasperation and turned towards her.

"You know… don't you?" Irene had her arms crossed over her chest, she remained silent, almost daring him to threaten her, beat her, anything to find out.

_Now, she was playing him too._

"You know… when the military wasn't good enough… when I got back… I had nothing." Silence, "When I found Jim… he gave me shelter, a job…" He kicked the glowing cigarette away from his feet, "I gave him everything I had. He told me what to do and I did it. I followed John Watson around, I studied him. Jim said I was skilled at that sort of thing… the stalking, that is. It started when he played that… game, with Sherlock Holmes. The bombs, the countdowns. I did it. And I was the one to bring John Watson to that pool, I was the one to strap the bombs to him, I was the one to set the red target on Sherlock Holmes head, his chest. When you got in the way with your petty scandal and top secret information… I admit, I was jealous. Jim was so caught up in you, but I knew that you'd have to slip up and you did. You fell for the insane genius, Sherlock Holmes. You ruined everything, and I think that's what brought Jim back to me. But even then, I knew that he was hiding something… something big."

Sebastian threw his fist against the bulletin board, a few papers fell around him. "I gave him _everything_. I trusted him, I gave him my mind, my skill… my body. I thought he was _mine_, because he was the only one I had." He felt tears start to roll down his face, his arms shook against the wall. "He gave me a gift, John Watson's life. If his plan went well, I'd shoot John Watson dead. But when Sherlock Holmes fell from that bloody rooftop, I understood. I wouldn't get to kill John Watson, but I'd get to keep Jim. I finally knew… that Jim no longer had Sherlock Holmes. I wouldn't have to compete with the lunatic anymore. Jim never told me, but he loved Sherlock. His every waking thought was _Sherlock_. And when I went to the rooftop after Sherlock's body was cleared away from the sidewalk, when I looked for Jim on the roof of St. Bart's… all I found was Jim's body, a bullet in his head, a pool of blood around him. It wasn't part of the plan, it _never_ was. Jim was supposed to be _mine_. And now… I have _nothing_."

He slid down against the wall towards the ground and curled into a broken mess. Sebastian shook with fear, agony, longing, anger. And Irene Adler just stood and watched.

"So what is this than?" Irene finally spoke, she pointed at the photos and maps pinned to the wall. "What are you still looking for? What are you still hoping for?"

Sebastian Moran began to pull himself together. Leaning against the wall, he picked up the dying cigarette that he had kicked only a couple minutes ago. It was almost burnt out, the glow was dimming. Pulling it to his lips, he inhaled and let the smoke fill his lungs. After holding it briefly, he exhaled and watched the thick smoke rise from his mouth and cloud his vision. His eyes were stinging, but that was no different from the sting of tears. He could still feel the tears on his face, evaporating by the minute. Irene Adler crouched down in front of him, the way that she leaned over him revealed her cleavage. She'd be so easy to manipulate, so easy to use. Her lips were pale and thin, the lipstick was still smeared along his thumb.

_He thought about Jim Moriarty._

_The lustful glances, the playful kisses and promises, the pain._

_All the pain that he went through for Jim Moriarty._

_He thought about the news articles._

_John Watson still believed in Sherlock Holmes, still thought he was a brilliant man._

_Sebastian thought about proving Jim wrong. _

_He needed to make John Watson shut up._

_He needed to prove to John Watson that Sherlock was an ordinary man, never worth his admiration and devotion._

_Never worth _**_Jim's _**_admiration and devotion._

_He needed to make John Watson pay for Jim's life. _

_For everything._

_Sniping wasn't enough. This time it would be personal._

_No guns and bullets._

_Only steel and flesh and blood._

Licking his lips, Sebastian looked up at her with sinister want and bloodlust in his eyes. "I'm going to torture John Watson. I'm going to strangle the truth out of him, every single thing he knows. I'm going to make sure that he has no more doubts about the _fake_ Sherlock Holmes. I want him to see the same pain, the same hurt that I feel. I want to kill John Watson."


	27. IOU

Seeing Sherlock's bedroom that day was something that John would never forget. He constantly thought back to the time before Sherlock's death. The secrecy, the silence, disappearing into his room for hours on end. John remembered back to the last couple days together; as soon as the clues in the envelops with red wax started showing up, Sherlock spent much more time alone. A couple times, John had knocked onto his bedroom door and asked if he wanted tea, but Sherlock would snap at him with a quick "no".

He had to admit, Sherlock's behaviour had begun to drive him insane. John remembered feeling like he was being pushed away, as if Sherlock was purposefully avoiding him. In the first few days after his death, John felt guilty for not spending more time with him. To speak to him, listen to anything that Sherlock had to say. He wished that he could take back so many things he said, but it was all too late now.

But as John stepped into the room, he realized that Sherlock had a plan. There was _always_ a plan, and if John had opened the door sooner, maybe he'd be so much closer to the bottom of all this. Moriarty's plan, Sherlock's secrets, _everything_.

John thought about all the strange occurrences from the past couple years. The vague replies in his conversations with Mycroft, the strangers at street corners with watchful eyes, the missing files.

The first thing that John came across in Sherlock's room was the framed image of the periodic table. It was something that he had teased Sherlock about, but he never realized how important that periodic table would become. John examined the image, looking for reasons that Sherlock would draw with red marker all over it. Three elements were circled: Iodine, Oxygen, and Uranium. John couldn't properly read the scribbles around the red circles.

_Sherlock did this for a reason._

_He left this behind, along with so many other things._

_And it was all for John._

He had to admit, it was overwhelming to think that Sherlock had hoped for him to continue this… case, riddle, this final problem. Maybe it was all a way to find and kill Moriarty. Maybe it was a way to clear Sherlock's name. But Moriarty was dead by now, Mycroft had told him ages ago. Or, at least it felt like ages…

John scanned the room, his heart beat steadily in his chest. It was clear that this was not the way Sherlock normally kept this space. Even the danger nights proved to have less chaos than what this room beheld.

_This was absolute chaos._

Books were piled on the floor beside the empty bookcases that used to hold them. The bed was disheveled, it looked like it had been slept in only hours ago. There was a distinct smell in the air, almost toxic and very familiar to John (linseed oil?). Papers and news articles littered the entire floor.

John stood still by the open doorway. He looked lost, he _felt_ lost. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing the heels of his palms into his forehead. Anxiety was making it's way into his system, starting to flow through his blood stream.

_Everything was too quiet._

He was numb, couldn't feel his feet on the ground or his hands on his head. John could only feel his steady heartbeat, it all became white noise. The smell was horrid.

_He remembered smells._

_Mary's shampoo._

_Tea._

_Funeral flowers._

_Blood._

_Car exhaust._

_Damp forestry._

_Coffee._

_Experiments._

_Sherlock._

John's eyes shot open and he backed out of the room, past the threshold. He felt the doorknob within his hand, he contemplated shutting the door and never looking back. Fears began to bubble up back to the surface.

_This has to be a dream._

_This has to be a dream._

_I'm still sleeping._

_None of this happened._

_Sherlock's still alive._

_This is just a dream._

He shoulders slumped and he felt defeated. John let go of the doorknob and looked back into the room.

_I have to do this._

_I have to find a way._

John walked back into the room again and started to collect papers from the ground. He didn't organize the papers in accordance to their topic, there was time for that later. Right now, he had to tidy the place up. It was only then that John could properly find a way to solve this final case.

Within the next couple of weeks, John had brought Sherlock's room _almost_ to the order it used to be while he was alive. The only difference now was that the periodic table hung over the sofa in the sitting room, and all the books and papers from Sherlock's room now sat organized on the kitchen table (where Sherlock used to put his own experiments).

The deeper that John went into Sherlock's records and scraps of information, the more complete he felt.

Solving cases had become a huge part of him during the time he spent with Sherlock, solving this case independently made the reason behind this case almost tolerable.

John enjoyed the time alone, but sometimes he'd think about the commentary Sherlock would make at the sight of John's research. John spoke to himself as if he was speaking to his old friend. Sometimes, the Sherlock in his head even developed a mind of it's own. Maybe it was a side-effect to finally opening the door to Sherlock's room, as if he was letting out his spirit (ridiculous). That was something that John found he couldn't control, Sherlock always had the last word.

_John, you already looked through that article._

"Well, I need to go back to it, Sherlock. I think there was something I missed."

_Missed? You shouldn't miss anything, John. Think!_

"Not everyone is as smart as the great Sherlock Holmes."

_Hmm… I suppose. Though Mycroft would beg to differ._

Time seemed to fly by too quickly whenever John got absorbed in his research. By now, he had realized that there was a code in the Grimm's Book of Fairy Tales.

_John, do you ever wonder why I died?_

"What?"

_I mean… the real reason?_

"Yes, of course. All the time. But you never told me."

_You believe in me._

"Yeah, good deduction."

_You love me._

"… Yes, I suppose I did."

_You still do._

"No. You're dead."

_But you still care, why?_

"I don't know."

_I love you too, John._

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

_But you know that I do. _

"No. You don't know how to love, you never would. You're not like me, Sherlock."

_How would you know?_

"You died, Sherlock. You gave up, you left me."

_… How do you know?_

"I bloody well know because I DO!"

John's health began to decline much quickly after spending too many late nights researching. He started to forget about eating and sleeping, it just wasn't important. It was like he was becoming Sherlock.

_Maybe when you spend enough time on a case you care about, you become irrational._

As much as he thought he was on to something, the furthest he could go was with the Grimms Fairy Tales. By examining the periodic table and the three circled elements, John had finally figured out that the three elements periodic numbers' were referencing to three stories in the book. It was rather lucky that Sherlock had the bloody periodic table in his room.

The three stories all seemed to loosely link to Sherlock and Moriarty. But John couldn't figure out their relevance to Sherlock's death or Moriarty's final assault. Metaphors would jump before the eyes of an english teacher, but John was never good at looking for hidden themes or links in stories.

With days of finding nothing, John began to feel anxiety and failure weigh him down. He slept much more often now and only answered his phone when his sister was worried enough. John wasn't the best of liars, but with his sister, he could make himself sound just fine on the phone.

Mrs. Hudson would come up now and than to make a meal for him or tidy up the flat. She fell pack into the same routines she had when Sherlock was alive and it was him that she cared for. But now John was the one who needed checking up on. And she never said anything about all the books and articles that littered the kitchen and sitting room space. She probably knew what he was doing, but she'd never personally ask him. Maybe it was just because she wanted to be polite. Either way, she wouldn't stop him unless it really caused his health to take a turn for the worst. She cared, and it was reassuring.

Days of nothing turned into weeks, when John had almost given up on finding anything new, something changed. It was a quiet evening in the sitting room with a cup of tea when John saw a flicker in the window of the flat across the street.

_It was morse code._

The flat had been empty for ages, but tonight was different. John looked through the glass and wrote down the code that he saw through the timed flashes of light.

It reminded him of Baskerville, when he thought he noticed someone doing morse code from a distance. In the end he had been wrong, but this time, there was a strong possibility that he was on to something.

John looked down at the scribbled letters he wrote:

**I O U**

_I. O. U._

John knew that it could mean anything. Something about it seemed familiar, but John couldn't figure out how.

_Who just sent that message?_

_Why?_

_Is it a clue?_

Though he didn't know if it was a clue, he knew that he'd treat it as one. Those three letters would run through his head and look for a reason, a memory, anything. It _had _to be something.

John looked back at the periodic table the hung over the sofa and stared at the red markings. He wished that he could create his own sort of mind-palace, something to keep documented information. Sherlock would have been able to understand the three letters in seconds, he'd know exactly where to look.

But "ordinary John" had no idea where to go next. And just as he was about to put his empty tea cup in the kitchen, he strode toward the sofa and looked at the circled elements.

_Iodine_

_Oxygen_

_Uranium_

_I. O. U._

Sherlock must have heard of the three letters before, it must have had significance enough. And now it was all linked to these three elements. And as John had discovered earlier, the three elements linked to three stories in the Grimm's Fairy Tales.

_What else could it all link to?_

_And why was someone sending the morse code to him?_


	28. Questions

It didn't take Sherlock very long to find Mary's new flat while he was in Cardiff. Mycroft had kept information about Ms. Morstan in his office, so it wasn't difficult for Sherlock to find her recent whereabouts. Finding the second assassin had changed everything and now he had to move much more quickly. The man had photos of John, which could only mean that trouble was close at hand and the slightest mistake could mean the end of John's life. Even though this would go against everything that Mycroft had planned, it didn't matter, Mary Morstan was the best resource there could be. She'd be able to tell Sherlock everything about John's progress over the past couple years, she'd know how much John learned about Moriarty and the assassins. Right now, there wasn't much time to waste and Sherlock needed answers.

Standing on the first floor of the apartment flat, he rang the bell to her room. Moments later, a woman answered the door.

_Blond hair, medium length and wavy._

_Fair complexion, freckles on her nose and cheeks._

_She looks up. Soft green eyes._

_She's shocked, maybe she recognizes him._

_Definitely shocked, and panicking._

_Probably has questions but is rendered speechless._

"You…"

"Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes and step through the threshold into her room.

_He couldn't do that._

_He had to be gentle with her._

_Bad decisions could prolong the chances of saving John._

"Sherlock… Holmes. You…" Mary sighed and blinked down at the ground, her hand clutched onto the side of the door as if she was ready to slam it in his face. "You were dead. I know you were… John…" She looked back up at him and there were tears in her eyes.

For a moment, Sherlock felt pity. Shame and pity for Mary Morstan, the woman who had to be there when John was at his worst. In those brief seconds, Sherlock could see everything that Mary had gone through and he actually felt… shame.

_Sentiment._

"Look," Sherlock tried to remain as sincere and kind as he could. Standing before him was the woman who brought a little happiness back into John Watson's life. Even if Sherlock didn't want to like her… without her help… who knows what would have become of the damaged army doctor.

Sherlock bit his lip and tried to restart his sentence, Mary seemed calm enough to listen to him and that was something that not many people would have done in this situation. "If you let me in for a few minutes, I can explain everything. But I can't talk out here in the hallway… it's dangerous. But of course, you could send me away if you preferred, Ms. Morstan." She seemed stunned, as if her brain wasn't functioning (probably wasn't.)

_Simple people and their simple minds._

Without saying another word, Mary motioned Sherlock inside. She tried to offer a kind smile, but it was clear that there was bitter hatred or anger somewhere there as well. Closing the door behind him, she turned to face Sherlock, glaring up at him.

_There it was, the hatred._

_And she had every right to hate him._

_Along with everyone else._

"Explain," she said simply, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to condense the past two (almost three years). He started with telling her that he faked his death, and the reasons behind that decision. He then told her about the assassins, how he found the first two and the importance of finding the third.

_For John Watson._

Mary stood silent. There were questions, many more questions, he could tell. There was a cold anger in her eyes, but there was also understanding. Because if Sherlock hadn't done any of this, Moriarty would still be alive, and his only friends would be dead.

But Mary wasn't the only one who would have questions, Sherlock had many of his own.

_And all of the questions were about John._

"I came here tonight," Sherlock decided to venture away from the more personal questions, "Because I know what John meant to you. And I need to know how much he knows… about all this. He hasn't given up, I know he hasn't, my brother has told me as much. John wants to clear my name… but in the process, he has brought himself to the attention of some… very determined people… and they will do anything to stop him."

Mary was still silent, but she was thinking, she was trying to find an answer to his question. Sherlock could almost see the metaphorical wheels turning in her head.

"John…" she voice was rough but she swallowed and tried to continue, "He was very quiet most of the time. Always thinking. I honestly can't say that I know if he did any research to clear your name to the press. He never went on that blog of his, but I would often check and find comments on it, other people telling him that he was insane for believing in Sher-… you. Of course there were a few supporters, some people just shared their condolences, or told their own stories about how you'd both helped them on a case… But John never seemed to be looking for anything. He never went through the science equipment, all your things in those boxes. He refused to throw any of it away."

"What about my room?" Sherlock took a step closer to her and waited for a reply, his heart was suddenly hammering in his chest. He knew that all the evidence was in his own bedroom, but would John ever look inside?

Mary seemed a little uncomfortable with the sudden closeness, she took a small step back so that she could look up at him properly. "He never went inside. A few times, in the night, I'd find him sitting beside the door though… Sometimes he'd fall asleep there. But he never opened the door, never looked inside. If he did, he would have told me. But… he just seemed so unnerved by your room, it's difficult to explain, but besides the nights where he sat there, he never ventured to open the door, or even look in that direction for that matter. I thought that sitting beside the door might have been one of his old habits, something he did without realizing it."

Sherlock thought back to finding John by the door on multiple occasions. It was always after a nightmare, but John never told Sherlock about it. The first time that John had done this was the night of their first official meeting with Moriarty. After leaving the pool, John was very edgy. They laughed it off, but when Sherlock woke up the next morning, he nearly tripped over John on the floor outside of his bedroom, sleeping. On some nights, Sherlock would open the door to look down at him, try to wake him up and make him tea. It was something that they never talked about, but Sherlock found himself frequently thinking back to those times. Even with John's absence, Sherlock still found himself opening his bedroom door (at his family home) to check.

_Again… _

_Sentiment._

Mary was looking at Sherlock quizzically. Being knocked out of his stupor, he took a step away from her and looked down at his feet.

_So, John had never gone into his room._

_That was a relief._

_But at the same time, Sherlock remembered leaving every clue there…_

_And he left it all there for John._

_Stupid idea. Stupid._

_The original idea was for John to find the information from his room, something to help clear Sherlock's name while he finished off the assassins… But Moran had changed Sherlock's plans. _

_Now everything was in jeopardy._

"And John still doesn't know that you're alive?" Mary asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head, "No… I can't let him know until I find the last man. Moran. After that… I can go back home..."

Suddenly, Mary was smiling at him. Sherlock glared at her, knowing that she must have been smiling for a ridiculous reason. He almost wished that she was back to looking shocked and angry.

"I just told you that a killer is after John, why are you looking at me like that?"

Mary shrugged, the smile disappeared when he mentioned the killer.

"You really don't get it, do you? Did you ever know how John feels about you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes this time, finally becoming frustrated.

_She'd have to be much more specific._

"Ah, well, what am I thinking? Of course you can't know, because he doesn't know either." Sherlock felt his heart beat stutter and realized that Mary was being serious, not even a hint of a smile now, the sour expression was back, as if she couldn't stand looking at him.

_Coward._

_Freak._

_Machine._

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but he couldn't find words to say, "That's… not why I'm here… John was…" He looked away, feeling like a child again, every emotion being detected and understood. But Mary couldn't surely see through Sherlock that easily.

"Oh, I see," she said. Sherlock turned back towards her and stared her down, waiting for her to finish making her claim, there was a triumphant smile on her face again, "You feel similarly for him too. You know it, don't you? Perhaps you think you feel much more strongly for him than he does for you…" Sherlock felt pale and stiff, he didn't know what to say or do, suddenly coming to Mary's home seemed like a very bad idea indeed.

_Of course he knew it._

_He always knew it._

_Sherlock had cared for John since that first case they worked on together._

A series of events had proven John Watson to be completely sincere and trust worthy in every respect. First there was John's first meeting with Mycroft, how he declined the offer of money in exchange for information. That conclusion had led to Sherlock getting John to text the murderer, something that he would never have let anyone else do. Then there was John's clean shot that killed the cabbie. Sound evidence that John was someone who Sherlock could completely rely on, and it was when he saw the man standing by the police car and looking completely innocent… that he realized this was the friend he had never dreamed of having.

Mary watched Sherlock, waiting for him to say something. The concentration in her gaze made it look as if she was reading his mind, looking through every memory that had just surfaced in his mind.

Sherlock turned away from her and pulled out his phone. He looked at the time on the screen, searching for a distraction, something to help him think.

Mary interrupted the silence, "I loved John, I really did… and I still do. But… I knew that it wasn't going to work. John tried to protect me, but he also had to protect himself. He was so breakable, always on edge. I was always trying to be careful around him because I didn't want to hurt him. I think… things between us were only going to last for awhile before he couldn't face it anymore. And seeing you alive before me makes it all the more clear… John will always be waiting for you to come back. No matter how truly he believes that you are dead, there's a small hope still there. It's untouchable, really, something that even _death_ can't change. And I think he's so determined to clear your name because he can't live with himself… he regrets so much… more than you know. And I know he would do anything to make up for not saving you that day."

"Why are you telling me this? Why do you care?"

"Because I've loved and lost too… and that's something that never goes away no matter who comes into your life. It was difficult, but I moved on. I have a life here now, and somehow the life I had with John Watson didn't seem to fit right. It was destined for failure." Sherlock looked at the ground and felt a hand on his shoulder, "He needs you, Sherlock."

He turned bak towards her again and looked at her.

_She was being sincere._

_She wasn't judging him._

_She trusted him._

"You make it sound so easy… to let go… How?" Sherlock studied her and waited. He actually valued her opinion, he needed answers. Mary Morstan breathed a sigh and looked away from his gaze, "How could _you_ do it? Let go enough to make a man think you were dead? Put him through hell?"

Sherlock felt anger rise under his skin. Mary wasn't looking at him, possibly wishing that she hadn't asked the question. He knew that it was something she would have to ask, but he had hoped she wouldn't say it.

_He didn't want to do it, fake his death… _

_He had to._

_But it wasn't easy._

_It wasn't easy at all._

"I don't know what to say…" Sherlock spoke blankly, feeling ashamed of himself. Mary breathed a laugh and walked past him towards the sofa.

_Sherlock was never speechless._

"What are you going to say when you go back? Do you expect him to welcome you with open arms? John's not that kind of person." She knew John better than Sherlock would ever have imagined she would. Mary's questions were worse than he anticipated, but they seemed to bring him back to the present. _Suddenly, the future wasn't looking bright at all. _

"I need to go back before it's too late. All that matters to me is that John Watson is safe… without that, I might as well be truly dead."Before saying another word, Sherlock left the flat, closing the door behind himself and running out onto the street.

_Seconds were like heart beats._

_Time was running out._

_I'm coming back, John._


	29. Caring is Not an Advantage

"Mycroft, answer your phone, will you? I have something urgent to speak with you about… and it concerns Sherlock. Please just call me back, or drop by… anytime. Just… yeah." John hung up the phone and went to the kitchen for a tea.

Since finding the chaos in Sherlock's old room, John had been consumed with riddles and codes, looking for solutions. Mrs. Hudson would drop in now and then to chat or clean up a bit, her visits were the only thing to keep John company (other than Sherlock's voice in his head). She tried to mind her own business, but John could tell that she worried about him bring cooped up in the flat for so long. The clinic where he worked didn't need him often, so there wasn't much to do other than dig up clues.

John figured that he was on to something. The mysterious assassins that were never killed became top priority. He always wondered about where they went after Sherlock's death. Obviously, they wouldn't need to stay on Baker Street with Sherlock gone, so where would they be now and why were they here in the first place?

The one thing that frustrated John the most was that he had been left in the dark for so long. Sherlock kept these things away from him deliberately, and he didn't have the faintest idea why. If there was anyone to trust… John thought that Sherlock would have trusted him. But then again, maybe Sherlock kept it all away from him because he knew John would try to get involved and possibly ruin everything.

_(He probably would…)_

Mycroft was the only person who John could think to talk to about this now. After all, it was _his_ brother who left it all behind. Not the mention, Mycroft was even more skilled than Sherlock at unravelling mysteries, he'd help John with this. The sooner that John could get Mycroft's help in finding these assassins, the sooner his worries would fade away.

If John were to tell the truth, he'd say that he was scared out of his mind. Of course, he was always pretty strong when it came to being in dangerous situations, his time in Afghanistan had trained him in many things, but all of that seemed to leave him once Moriarty came along.

He never would have imagined things getting worse than they were at the pool that night, ages ago, with explosives tied to his body as Moriarty taunted Sherlock in person. But Moriarty's reappearance after the _Reichenbach Fall _case made the first meeting seem like a tea party now. Of course, the only reason why John had ever really and truly feared Jim Moriarty was because _Sherlock_ did… and Moriarty's effect on his friend was most unsettling for him.

After Sherlock's death, John had been certain that Moriarty was behind it. There was no way in hell that Sherlock would have committed suicide because he was a "fake".

_It wasn't true._

_It'd never be true._

_Sherlock lied._

And the question that John had asked himself ever since the funeral… was why did Sherlock lie? Surely it wasn't to protect himself, and it definitely couldn't have been to protect John…

But on the other hand… John had been bait for Moriarty's mind games. He was a deliberate pawn in the game, something to weaken all of Sherlock's boundaries. So… was there another way that Moriarty had threatened Sherlock? Something that would endanger John?

_No._

_There couldn't be._

_Sherlock wasn't sentimental._

_He didn't care._

John took a sip of tea and blinked away the insane questions and ideas that began to take root in his mind. He didn't want to think of this… any of it. And maybe if Mycroft wasn't such a bloody prat, he'd contact John and tell him that he was wrong yet again.

_Always wrong._

_And John wanted to be wrong this time._

_Sherlock didn't die for John._

_He never would. _

John's cell phone rang, and without looking at the Caller ID, he answered, "Hello?" There was no answer, only a poor connection with a crackle on the other end. "Hello, is there someone there?" John waited again but there was still nothing. White noise began to surround him, it was becoming to much. He bit his lip and tried not the panic, and before lingering on the line any longer, he hung up and threw his cell phone onto the kitchen table.

_That was odd… _

Taking another sip from his now-lukewarm tea, John picked up the phone again and looked at the call history. The last call was from an unknown number, not very helpful at all. Just as John was about to leave his phone again, it started ringing in the palm of his hand. This time, the Caller ID showed "Mycroft Holmes" on the screen. John relaxed a little and pressed down the button, "Hello, Mycroft?"

There was a pause on the other end, John felt his heart beat begin to quicken again but there was finally a reply, "Hello, John. Sorry but I was caught up in business earlier. Was there a matter you wished to discuss with me?"

John felt relief, "Yes, yes there is. I was actually wondering if you could come down to the flat, I pulled up some information that I thought you'd be interested in." There was a short pause before Mycroft murmured a distracted "go on." John proceeded to tell Mycroft about some of his observations, the hypothesis that he had over the assassins, and questions that he hoped Mycroft could answer.

When John finished his speech, Mycroft was very eager to speak, "John, I'd advise you, for your own safety, to stay out of the matters concerning those assassins. I have employees who are already searching them out. If you like, I can send you progress reports, but much of the information is classified and still being processed properly. Where'd you happen to get these ideas about the assassins, John?"

"I went into Sherlock's room and happened to find some things that related to the final cases before his death. Maps and case files mostly… but there was something else that could be important. Mycroft, what do you know about the initials I.O.U.?"

There was a longer pause on the other end of the line this time and John wasn't sure what to make of it. He felt his mouth go dry as he realized that this prolonged silence couldn't be good at all. Mycroft was usually quick to speak, but this silence was just about as erie as the silence during the phone call before this one, with the unknown number.

"… Mycroft?" John paused and listened to a distant sound from the other end, Mycroft must have been ruffling papers. "John, what do _you_ know about the initials I.O.U.?"

"I asked you fir-"

"Yes, I know. But I want you to tell me what you know of these three letters."

John dumped the little remains of his cold tea in the sink and leaned against the kitchen counter. "Well, Sherlock has mention of the three letters within the scraps of case files that I found. He also circled three elements on the periodic table in his room: Iodine, Oxygen and Uranium: I,O and U. I figured out that the periodic numbers for these three elements also happen to refer to three stories from the _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ book we found at the crime scene. In the case with the two kidnapped children, that book was found in the girl's dormitory room. Lestrade brought the book over to the flat a couple months ago, along with some of the other evidence. I just wasn't so sure why Sherlock would need reference to three stories and how they could help find the assassins, or even the kidnapper of the two children. It could be anything, really. The research that he left behind is all pretty vague."

"John, that evidence should have stayed at Scotland Yard. Are you trying to get Inspector Lestrade into even more trouble?"

"No… but-"

"Have you told anyone else this information? Even Lestrade?"

"No, not even Mrs. Hudson. She's seen everything lying about, but she hasn't actually looked at any of it properly."

"Has anyone come into the flat as of late? Strangers? Plumbers?"

"No, I don't believe so. I could ask Mrs. Hud-"

"John. Promise me this now, and listen to me clearly. I want you to put all of the research away. Store it somewhere where no-one else can find it or burn it for all I care. Just do this as soon as you can. If any of that information got into the wrong hands, it could mean that we are even farther from finishing off Moriarty's network."

"Fine, fine… Thanks, Mycroft…" John felt his heart sink in his chest, it seemed that Mycroft wasn't going to be as helpful as he hoped. If anything, telling Mycroft about all this suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

"Right. I have a lot of business to attend to, as you know. So if you don't mind, John, I need to go for now. But please, if anything strange occurs… tell me as soon as you can. I'll have someone keep an eye on the security cameras throughout Baker Street. Just don't try to play "hero"… Sherlock's death was a tragedy… but it doesn't mean that you have to make up for it. It wasn't your fault, John Watson."

John was stunned by Mycroft's words. He wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or thankful. Mycroft was hardly ever sincere, but this time… it almost seemed like his own way of being truthful and real for once.

"Thanks…" John cleared his throat, "Fine… I'll just… take care of things. Bye, Mycroft." John felt a little weak and unstable. Mycroft murmured a "goodbye" and hung up.

Flinging the cell phone back onto the kitchen table, John braced either side of his head within his hands. Everything was pounding. John could feel the beginnings of tears forming beneath his eyelids but he tried to will it all away.

_He thought that he was finished with this… _

_The grieving. _

Blinking at his surroundings and leaning onto the table with his palms, he scanned every surface.

_Dishes._

_Papers._

_Books._

_Tea cups._

_Everything had to go._

Pulling himself up and standing straight, John didn't know where to start. His hands shook as he dropped two used tea cups into the sink, something shattered, but he ignored it. A couple dishes went into the sink too, he managed not to drop them onto the tea cups but the clattering sound they made in the hollow sink rung in his ears. His palms were numb, he couldn't feel the paper under his fingers. Testing the tendons in his arms, he scrunched the paper into his fisted hands.

_What are you doing?_

It was that voice in his head again, John bit his lip and tried to ignore the soft sound of the voice he thought he'd have forgotten ages ago.

_What are you doing, John?_

"None of your bloody business."

John proceeded to tear a few pages in half, scribbled words on paper that didn't mean anything anymore. Everything was blurring, out of focus.

_John._

"No… go away."

_No._

He was rendered speechless by the voice in his head. For a moment, he stopped destroying the scraps of code and research. The voice was silent, he hoped that it wouldn't return.

After throwing all the research notes into a bin, he stacked the books on the table. News articles with crude yellow highlights stuck out of some of the books. John put the _Grimm's Book of Fairy Tales_ on top of the pile and took the heavy stack back to Sherlock's room. It'd serve as a sort of burial ground for all of this crap.

_What are you thinking about?_

"How stupid I am. Really stupid. I'm such an idiot, you were always right."

_You're wrong._

John dropped the books onto the floor by Sherlock's bed, it made a loud thud against the wooden floorboards. He clutched at his head and pushed into his skull with the tips of his fingers. The pain was supposed to make the voice go away, but it didn't work.

_John. Are you really going to do this?_

_Are you really going to listen to my brother?_

_That would be a first…_

"Shut up."

_Do you think I would have ever stopped?_

_Do you think I ever would have given up?_

John laughed, the tears actually came this time. "Yes, yes you _would_, Sherlock. You did! You died! You gave up! Why?"

The voice was silent.

"You died Sherlock. I was there, I saw you fall. You left… so you're gone." John let out a quiet sob, collapsing onto the edge of Sherlock's bed. "You're not even here right now, talking to me. It's just my brain."

_No._

"What? You're lying to me again, now. Stop it. Just… stop talking to me."

_No._

"_Why_ are you doing this to me? Haunting me?"

_I'm not._

"How would you explain this, than? It's not logical."

_Nothing's logical._

"Ha. Really? Because last I checked, all _you cared_ for is logic!"

_But I care for you. And that's not logic._

"Are you just trying to insult me now?"

_No, John. But it was never logical to me… _

_I could never find a way to describe this._

"What?"

_Us._

"What do you mean: _Us_"

_Forget it._

"No, explain."

_… I can't explain it._

"The "great Sherlock Holmes" can't describe something? Why? Because it's emotion? Feeling? Sentiment?"

_Well… yes._

"But what do you mean by "us"?"

_I mean… how I feel about us. _

_You and me. It was never logical._

"You'll be the death of me."

_But you knew this. You don't think it's logical either._

"How would you know?"

_Because you've thought about it too. _

_You've always defended yourself and your honour, as if everything was an insult. _

_Everything they said about us… you hated it._

"Because those accusations weren't true."

_Yet you still question that, yourself._

"What are you saying?"

_You know this, John. _

_You know that I care._

_Really care… about you._

_It's obvious, John… _

"How do I know that you care? If you cared, you wouldn't have-"

_I love you. _

"You don't know what love is. How could you know that you "loved" me?"

_Love, John._

"What?"

_Present tense._

_I love you._

"Ok, fine. But how?"

_Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains…_

_However improbable… must be true._

"True? How could I know what's true anymore?"

_But you do know._

"You keep saying that, but I can't believe it."

_No, you just decide not to believe it._

"Look, Sherlock… I cared too. Still care. I… suppose I love you. But, I'm not g-"

_Stop!_

_Every time you- Just stop._

_It's not about sex, John. _

_Love isn't about sex!_

"No, I suppose not… but in this case-"

_Of course. _

_John Watson can only validate love if it's a woman._

_But if it was ever a man._

_Even just… one man._

_It's different._

_And it means that John Watson has to defend himself every time that someone makes a bloody observation!_

"What are you talking about?"

_Irene Adler. _

_I was there too, remember?_

_I heard everything she said, and you said._

"What does this have to do with-"

_Listen to me, John._

_Loving someone doesn't mean that it changes your identity._

_It also doesn't mean that it's rational… but it's sentiment._

_It's not all about relationships either, it can be in anything._

_And somehow, you've gotten it stuck in your brain that love means sex._

_And that means… that you will always dismiss the notion of love._

_Loving me… _

_Because you're heterosexual._

"The only thing that's stuck in my brain is you. Just leave."

_Only if you will me to leave._

_Do you really want me gone?_

"Yes."

_Fine, than, have it your way._

"Sherlock… Sherlock?" John spoke into the silence, there was no reply. John looked down at Sherlock's bed, he had forgotten that he was sitting there. There was a feeling of release in the air around him, as if something had left the room. John realized what had happened, he realized that when he asked the voice to leave this time… it left.

_And now John was back to being completely alone._

_Truly alone._

John felt the sheets under his hands, he gripped onto the mattress for support. A weight had been lifted off of him, he could feel it. And maybe it was the mourning, maybe it was over. Maybe John could finally move on. But that's not what it felt like. This was much different. There was a new guilt within him, and this time he'd have to suffer it alone.

"Sherlock… please come back. Don't leave me. Don't go, please don't go," John laid back onto the mattress and put his hands over his eyes.

_Sherlock, I'm sorry. _

_I only meant to say that I love you too. _

_Nothing more._

**(I really loved writing this chapter, and I'm really excited to write what happens next. The next time I update will probably be next weekend (Dec. 8-9) I'll be finished school by then, so I'll have much more time to write, and I hope to possibly finish this entire fanfiction by the end of december or mid-january. There's about 20 more chapters to write, sorry about that. Anyways, thank you endlessly for all the wonderful reviews, and I hope that you continue to enjoy my fanfic.)**


	30. Initiative

"Mycroft has his people watching Baker Street. John hasn't left the flat except for work and Tesco. He hasn't spoken to Mycroft for quite some time after their most recent conversation, a month or two ago. But apparently John has indeed left all the research behind, so we won't need to worry about him getting involved with any of the plans," Irene said as she tapped into her phone.

"But my brother doesn't know half of all this. He doesn't know about the photos. He doesn't know about Sebastian Moran. He doesn't even know that _you're_ alive!"

"Sherlock, you're overreacting. I spoke to Sebastian myself, and I told you everything that he told me."

Sherlock was pacing around Irene's flat. He was too distracted to try his Mind-Palace, but he needed to think. Everything had escalated so quickly after killing the second assassin, and this final man seemed to be the worst one of all. If Sherlock had it his own way, he would have made sure that Sebastian Moran was the first to be killed. After all, Moran was the one who took control of the web after Moriarty's death, they could have destroyed the web much faster. But Mycroft, of course, had other plans. "Tell me, what did Moran say? His exact words."

Irene sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, "I'm going to kill John Watson. I'm going to strangle the truth out of him… I'm going to make sure that he has no more doubts about the "fake" Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa and curled up in on himself, burrowing into the cushions. The words pulsed in his mind, they felt like poison in his system. He didn't notice the light touch of Irene's hand to his shoulder as she sat down beside him, he didn't feel the gentle kiss that she planted on his cheek.

_Nothing mattered._

_But everything mattered._

_John mattered._

"Darling, are you really going to do this again?"

Sherlock willed himself to remain silent, but there was always a reply on his lips, in every situation.

_Almost every situation._

"What else is there to do? I'm… lost," he whispered, resenting himself even more as the words came out.

_This was one of those moments where cocaine would really help._

"I've never known Sherlock Holmes to be lost. He never _gives up_."

"I'm not giving up!" Sherlock snapped back, finally turning to look at Irene. She stared back at him with wide eyes, she almost looked… naive.

_As if._

"I'm just… stuck. I don't have anything. Cigarettes, cocaine, nicotine patches, a violin, _nothing_. I need all my senses to be in check, I need stimulation, I need… I don't know what I need."

"You need your old life back," Irene said in all seriousness, "You need John back. And the only way to get any of that back is to finish this."

Sherlock turned away from the woman and curled up even further, hiding his head beneath his hands.

_He didn't need Irene to state the obvious._

"What happened, Sherlock? Something changed in you… since I saw you last. Something is eating at you and you're not telling me."

_Where to begin?_

_Someone is watching John's every move._

_There's a possibility that John might have cared about him more than he ever let on._

_Now, Sherlock couldn't suppress his fears and his emotions._

_And it was disturbing his thinking process as well. _

"I'm afraid… and I don't like it. The last time I was this terrified… it was only about a bloody hound that didn't even _exist_. _That_ fear was induced by chemicals. But this is an entirely different fear. And there's so much more at stack."

Irene didn't say anything, he could feel her weight lift off of the sofa as she moved away, her high heels made a dreadful echoed tapping sound against the floor boards.

_Think._

_Think._

_Think._

_Just one needle._

_One dose…_

_No._

_Just think._

_Moran could be anywhere, but he's probably in London._

_Unless someone else was doing the dirty work for him._

_Highly likely._

_The neighbour across the street. _

_The Russian killer._

_She could be his personal spy, watching John._

_Yes, that's it._

_One phone call to Mycroft and she could be taken care of…_

_But it wasn't that easy. It can't be._

_Moran is still out there. He's priority._

_Possibly… Maybe._

_Either one of them could have John killed in a matter of seconds._

Sherlock scrambled off of the sofa and moved across the room to get a drink. Irene watched as he poured Vodka into a clear glass and downed it in only a couple swallows. Everything was dark and quiet in the flat, past midnight most likely. Sherlock didn't know the date or time, he'd lost track since leaving his mother's house. A couple years ago, he would have known every detail, every hour, minute and second. But something had changed since, something weakened all his senses, all his useful senses… and replaced them with something new, senses he'd oppressed with years of practice.

_Sentiment._

He was becoming his own worst enemy, an empty shell. This was the one thing he promised that he'd never become, and he failed.

"Look, John's in danger still, we both know that. So that needs to be our priority right now, you need to go out there and find Moran. If Moran discovers that you're alive, there's even more of a risk. The first two assassins you killed saw you, they knew it was you, but who's to say that they are the only ones to know? Word can spread quickly through a web like Moriarty's. You have me, you have all the information I got from Moran. John will be alive, as long as you are still a secret. No-one can know that you're alive. You are the deciding factor in all this, the only time to act is now, before it's too late."

Sherlock looked out the small window of the flat, a single word repeating in his mind like a heavy pulse.

_Obvious._

_Obvious._

_Obvious._

"Irene… I already know all of that. But it's not helping, it's not going to make me find Moran any sooner. If he's my priority, I need a location."

"He's moved around a lot. He's even been out of the country for awhile, making sure nobody was on his tail. Sherlock, Sebastian is good at hiding, he's a sniper. He's trained to watch from the shadows, you wouldn't _believe_ how many times he's been right under your nose but you never noticed. Moriarty had you set as a target for ages, and Sebastian has worked for him quite awhile, longer than you've known John Watson. Only, once _he_ came into the picture, Moriarty was much more keen on destroying the two of you."

"Why not just me? Why does he care about John?"

Irene breathed a laugh and looked down at her phone, a blue glow lit her face and the small smirk at the edge of her mouth, "It's _obvious_, Sherlock. You already know this, is your skill for observation really fading this fast already?"

_Moriarty… his words at the pool..._

_"I will burn you…_

_I will burn, the heart out of you."_

"Of course, he thought that the only way to get through to me was to use John."

"And he was right."

Sherlock glared at her, biting his lip before losing his temper.

"Don't give me that look, darling. You lost the game, you already know this. It's the only reason why you're here right now, and the world thinks you're dead._ John _thinks you're dead."

In seconds, Sherlock strode over and was standing directly in front of Irene, he gripped either side of her shoulders in his hands and dug his fingers into the thin fabric of her blouse and the flesh beneath that. "But I _didn't_ lose. That's why I'm still alive, nonetheless. I was clever enough to fool everyone into thinking I'm dead, I… I told John that I'm a fake, I sacrificed my pride, my life. I did it for him, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. It's true… I let sentiment get the better of me… but I didn't lose the game. Moriarty is rotting in the ground, not me. _He _lost."

Irene Adler looked up at Sherlock without emotion, maybe she expected this from him. Maybe she hoped to anger him enough to get him off his arse and give him the boost of courage to find Moran. Sherlock let go of her shoulders and stepped away. He retrieved his coat and his cell phone before moving to the door.

"Where are you going?" Irene spoke shyly from the other side of the room, her voice was quiet and gentle, possibly apologetic.

"Out. I… I need some air. I need to think."

"Let me go with you."

"No."

"Sherlock, you can't go out there alone. What if something happens?"

"What could possibly happen to me at this point? We're in Gloucester, no-one's on our tracks. I just need to find some cigarettes and a hiding place. Maybe an alley-way or a rooftop. Just… don't follow me. I have my phone."

"Be careful."

"I'm not a child, Irene."

"Sherlock"

Sherlock turned quickly and knocked into Irene. His chin grazed her forehead, he could feel her body warmth, could smell the perfume in her hair. He was anxious and intoxicated by the aroma and feel of her arms as she caressed him.

Irene was holding him, both her arms circling his torso and reaching up to touch the nape of his neck. Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to suppress the shiver that threatened to roll up and down his spine. Her head was resting against his upper chest and collar bone, the fine hairs that had escaped her bun were tickling his throat and chin.

In truth, Sherlock had never been embraced in such an intimate way before. His family was never keen on physical affection, he had never had a lover, nor relations with other people, never known what it felt like to hold someone close. To have them return those affections… it was all so alien to him.

Too many details were running through his mind at once, but he tried to drink it all in, even if he'd never wanted the affection of this woman. Sherlock tried to relax in the embrace, every muscle felt too tense and stiff. With hesitation, he curled his arms around her back and returned the embrace, leaning his face down onto the top of her head.

_Right now, in this moment, it wasn't Irene's intention to seduce him._

_It was pure affection, actual sentiment and concern._

_He could feel it in the urgency of the moment, as if this was to be their last meeting._

_A final goodbye to_ The Woman.

_Maybe she thought he'd come back, maybe she knew that he wouldn't._

_Either way, she accepted him as he was…_

_And Sherlock understood that. _

_He knew._

Sherlock lifted his face from her head as she moved to turn her own face upwards. It was a signal, Sherlock knew that much. It meant something, and Sherlock was weary of this part.

Irene lifted up closer to his face and he felt every muscle in his body become tense again. He wanted to stop her, warn her, push her away. But he didn't know how. Irene's lips were so close to his own that he could almost taste her, he could feel their inhales and exhales intermingle.

She looked up into his eyes and he tried to respond. Irene smiled and cupped the left side of Sherlock's face in the palm of her hand.

_Maybe it was understanding again?_

Either way, just as he thought she was going to pull him in, Irene Adler left a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. Sherlock wanted to shy away, but it was already over, and Irene was stepping out of his arms. The ghost of a kiss was on the side of his mouth, his first kiss.

_But not a real kiss._

"Let's reserve your lips for John, shall we?" Irene smiled up at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sherlock swallowed and bit his lip, he tried not to smile or laugh. Running a hand through his hair, he spoke in a whisper, "Thank you."

Irene beamed at him, all the heat of their past argument was gone, vanished as if it never happened. "Your welcome. Be safe and keep in touch."

"I will," Sherlock shrugged his coat onto his shoulders and buttoned it up to his neck, next he wound a plaid scarf around his throat. After smiling back at her, he opened the door and walked out, quietly shutting the down behind himself.

When Sherlock got to the first floor of the apartment flat, he strolled out the side exit and took a side street to find a store where he could find cigarettes. The weather was cool and the quiet of the night was almost too erie for the likes of Sherlock. A small corner store was lit up ahead of him at the end of the street, a large sign read: OPEN 24 HOURS.

Paying attention to his surroundings, he came up to the road and crossed to the other side of the street. When he opened the rusted door, a bell sounded. There was a small middle-aged man behind the cash register, reading the news paper while fighting the urge to fall asleep.

After selecting a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, Sherlock paid the man and left the store in a hurry. Crossing the street again, Sherlock crept towards a nearby alleyway and leaned against the graffitied wall. The glow of the lighter's flame lit up his surroundings for a moment before lowering the flame to the edge of the cigarette. A burning grow replaced the flame and Sherlock took a long drag.

The smell and taste of the smoke brought him back to his past, it was comforting.

_Almost too comforting._

The sound of a car was coming down the street at a steady pace, too slow for driving on the main road. Just as he dreaded, the car slowed down and stopped right beside the entrance to the alley where Sherlock stood. The familiarity of the car was slightly comforting, but Sherlock scowled and tried to ignore the familiar silhouette behind the tinted glass.

After taking a few more drags from the beautiful cigarette, the familiar figure in the backseat opened the car door and walked towards him. Sherlock exhaled a large cloud of smoke and looked down at his shoes.

"Good evening, Mycroft," he murmured as he sucked in some more smoke.

"Sherlock, you need to come with me."

"Whatever for?"

"Business. Important matters."

"What kind of business?" Sherlock was becoming frustrated and impatient, he wished to be alone.

"John Watson. Does that sort of business interest you, little brother?"

Sherlock turned towards Mycroft and put out the cigarette against the wall, crushing it between his fingers.

"What about John?"

Mycroft hesitated, looking away for a moment before giving Sherlock an exasperated stare. "This is not a matter to speak of here. We must take this somewhere else, somewhere private."

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face, without another thought, he stepped into the car and sat down as Mycroft followed him inside.

"We're to go back to London. There is much to discuss with you, Sherlock."

**(So sorry for how late I updated, I hoped to finish writing this chapter a week ago. I actually just finished writing and editing this a couple minutes ago. Anyways, I hope to start working on the next chapter asap, it getting extremely close to the climax at this point, so I'm excited to write about what happens next. I hope you are all enjoying it so far, thank you for all the reviews! :) I hope to update within the next few days, maybe after the weekend. It depends on how fast I write it up and edit it. Thanks for everything.)**


	31. Back on the Battlefield

When John realized that the voice in his head wasn't going to return, everything deteriorated much more quickly. The first morning felt like it might be different, he sipped his tea and read the morning newspaper with a smile on his face. But as the day progressed, it was as if guilt was sinking back into his system and reminding him of what he did.

Of course, making the voice go away seemed to be for the best… or at least his therapist might have thought so. But it didn't feel any better at all. And maybe it would be best to start seeing Ella again for another appointment, but knowing the way that these meetings always went, it was better not to waste his time. Even if there wasn't anything better to do all day, every day.

Time seemed to move slower. John would pace the flat and try to tidy up in any way that he could, but the chores weren't enough. Everything was back in order, nothing out of place. The only thing that John could not rid of was the bloody yellow smiley face on the wall. Hours of scrubbing the wall did nothing but make him smell of dish soap and discolour the wallpaper around the paint. It left him exasperated, distraught, and the only thing he could do about it was kneel down on the floor and try not to cry.

Mrs. Hudson came up to clean the flat now and then, and found herself at a loss each time. Maybe it was because there was nothing to clean… or maybe it was because there was a quiet broken man in the armchair, hunched over a book or newspaper. In the end, there wasn't much that she could do for John, other than make him some tea and offer conversation. It was always hopeless though, John didn't respond anymore.

One evening, John had awoken from a nap on the sofa when he heard faint yelling coming from the first floor of the flat. It was Mrs. Hudson, and she seemed rather upset about something over the phone. John could hear broken words from her conversation.

" Mycroft… your brother would have… But… all John had!"

He strained to hear as much as he could, all he could tell was that she was speaking with Mycroft… they talking about him.

"I can't stand by and… He's a wreck! I won't have it… that research was all that John had and… fine… I understand, I'm not a child Mycroft Holmes!"

John tried to swallow the lump in his throat, listening to Mrs. Hudson only made him feel worse. He closed his eyes and hoped for sleep to come, but it wasn't going to come easy this time.

_Nothing was easy anymore._

The dreams and conversations with Sherlock in his mind had been the only way that he could remember small things about the man. But everything was beginning to fade from his memory again, Sherlock's voice, his laugh, his smile, his eyes, everything.

John could sit in silence for hours, trying to conger up little memories from life before Sherlock's suicide. He could distinctly remember running through the streets with the madman, that coat bellowing out behind him. The distinct scent of burning chemicals and experiments from the kitchen, smells that usually turned John off of dinner. Sherlock always curled up on the sofa, right here were John was lying down, right now. This very spot was where Sherlock used to lay his head and sulk. John tried to remember that head of curls, almost always perfectly sculpted. Every morning, John could tell which side of the bed that Sherlock had woken from, because he always had the funniest bed-head. John used to laugh at it, and Sherlock would glare at him, then make an deduction of when was the last time John had a decent shag. But John still laughed at him, still wanted to run his hands through Sherlock's hair to make it even more of a mess, just to irritate him. Sherlock would hate it, and possibly experiment on John in retaliation.

John wanted to look on all of these memories fondly, but at the rate that he was losing them, all he could think of was the paranoia of losing the best two years of his life.

_His two years with Sherlock._

Sitting up on the sofa, John rubbed his hands over his eyes and concentrated on the silence. Mrs. Hudson must have finished the phone call. John thought of calling the clinic, maybe seeing if they could schedule him for a few more shifts. The next time he was supposed to go in was the next day, but he needed to occupy himself _now_. The clinic seemed like the best, and only, option.

John stood from the sofa to look for his phone, he couldn't remember where he had last put it, but it had to be somewhere close by. As he scanned every surface in his path, he felt the pain in his leg come back. The burning ache stopped him where he was, wincing, he clutched onto the threshold to the kitchen and waited for the pain to ebb away.

It hadn't been this bad since after returning from the Afghanistan. Soon after Sherlock's death, he had begun to notice the ache come now and again, but it hadn't been this intense before. Mary had been a good support, he knew that her presence dulled the pain a little, but since she left him too, his leg had started to worsen again. John expected this, he knew that he was getting older. He could feel his body weaken with age day by day. He began to notice it more when there was nothing to do but watch time waste away. Maybe the crimes and the intensity of life with Sherlock had made him forget about age, or the way that time went by. Maybe it was the distraction he needed, just as Sherlock had needed distraction.

_What must it have been like for Sherlock?_

_To be so consumed by details._

_To observe everything in his path._

_To be bored, and to long for anything that would end his boredom. _

John let go of the threshold and stood straight, testing his body for weakness. His leg wasn't hurting as strongly, but the ghost of the pain that was once there still lingered in his bones and nerves. Clenching his jaw, he moved towards the counter and leaned down with his palms on the cool surface.

_He'd make tea first._

_Then he'd look for the phone._

As he set himself to making tea, he tried to take his mind off of the throbbing pain in his leg. In the end, he was so impatient with the pain that he collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs and took a sip of his tea only to discover that it wasn't steeped long enough.

John winced and looked down at the hot liquid, he couldn't help feeling frustrated and angry. The mug made a loud thump against the table as he pushed it away and put his head in his hands. There was a sound coming from the stairs and it caused him to turn towards the doorway in panic.

_Why panic?_

"John?" He heard the soft, familiar voice of Mrs. Hudson and felt the tension melt away. She opened the door to the kitchen and looked down at him with a worried expression. "I brought you some groceries. It'll save you from having to order in so much." John nodded and stood to take the shopping bag from her. As he stepped toward her, another shot of pain went up his leg and made him stumble. A flash of shock and worry crossed Mrs. Hudson's face, she leaned forward to take hold of his arm, steadying him. "It's alright, John. I can put the groceries away, there's no need for you to do everything for me. I'm not _that_ old, dear." She meant for it to sound lighthearted, but John wanted to snap at her when she mentioned the last bit (_Well, I'm not that old either_). Instead, he smiled down at her and pulled one of the bags from her grasp.

"I'll just assist you, that's all. Not much else for me to do at the moment."

Mrs. Hudson opened the fridge and started to put things in their place. No-one would have imagined that only a couple years ago, there were fingers and internal organs stashed in the fridge. Now, there was only actual food, the normality of it all was still something that John couldn't get used to.

After they finished with the groceries, Mrs. Hudson made herself a tea and sat at the kitchen table across from John. There was an incredible weight to the silence between them, and John didn't want to have an awkward conversation right now.

Dragging an old newspaper towards him, John started to leaf through it. He took a sip of his tea and forgot how weak it was, and now it was also cold. As he swallowed it down, he felt Mrs. Hudson's eyes on him, watching. It was obvious that she wanted to make conversation, and why not? John had no-one else to talk to, and she was such an empathetic woman, of course she'd want to keep him company.

The problem was that, no matter how much John wanted the company, he needed to be alone just as much. It wasn't something that many could understand, it was the way he was when he first moved to London, before Sherlock. Being alone was all he had, and when he saw Stamford that day in the park, he really would have rather not been noticed at all.

_He wanted to regret that day in general._

_Seeing Stamford, meeting Sherlock._

_If none of it had happened, John wondered where he would be right now._

_Would he even be here at all?_

_The handgun was very welcoming in those days._

_And it was starting to become welcoming now as well. _

"John," Mrs. Hudson reached across the table and gently tapped his hand on the newspaper. He glanced up at her, trying to keep his face completely neutral of expression. "Has it gotten worse?"

John exhaled loudly and looked down at the woodgrain in the table. He had to admit that he liked the straightforwardness of her question. Mrs. Hudson was usually one to skirt around questions, avoid them rather than abruptly say what she means. John didn't know how to respond, he felt like something was blocking his throat. It was difficult to breath properly, or form words in his mind. He tried to get a grip on reality, on the here and now.

"Could… you be more specific?" John finally said, choking out the last word with a small sob. The chair across the table moved roughly against the floor and suddenly, Mrs. Hudson was beside him, her arms around him. John was tense at first, but soon he had his arms around her as well and he was hugging her back. With his forehead against her shoulder, he cried quietly and held onto her.

_This was what he needed._

_All this time._

_Support. _

_Release._

"There, there," She whispered as she patted his back like a mother would for her child. "You need to let this out, John. It's been eating at you, I can't bare stand to see it do this to you."

John stopped crying, he let go of her so that he could wipe the tears away from his face, "I thought… I thought I was done with this. Caring. I thought I had moved on… but… I was," John couldn't finish it. He bit his lip.

_Wrong._

_He was wrong._

"John. When things like this happen, we can never know for sure. What happened to… to Sherlock, it was a tragedy. But it wasn't your fault."

"No, it was. It was all my fault. I… I left him in the lab, I left him. I told him…" _That he was a machine._

John closed his eyes and tried to breathe. "I didn't stop him in time, I wasn't with him. He… he jumped. He _lied_ to me, he lied and I know it was because of Moriarty. He was _murdered_. And… I wasn't there to save him."

"John, you can't think-"

John shied away from her embrace and glared, "What! You believe that he's a fake too? Just like everyone else?"

"No, but… Oh, I don't know why he did it, John. I don't know. We'll never know, I suppose."

"He _told_ me that he was a fake. He told me that everything… _everything_ was a lie. And… I still trusted him, I still believe him now. You didn't see him… that night… when they were coming to arrest him… he thought I was doubting him, he thought that after everything that happened… I didn't believe in everything he was. There was so much there in his eyes, he was scared, so scared… When I told him that I still believed him… everything about him, he seemed to believe what I said… I didn't lie to him. He knew that none of what I said was a lie. So… why… _why_ did he lie to me on that… rooftop? Why did he tell me he was a _fake_, while the day before… he was so scared that I could possibly doubt him. Sherlock… wasn't like that, he wouldn't ever say he was a fake. He was too proud of his abilities, it was all he had."

_But he had John too._

_Maybe what he was doing…_

_Was protecting John._

_No._

_He couldn't have._

_But…_

_Friends protect people._

_John said that._

_So is that what Sherlock did?_

_Was he protecting John from Moriarty?_

"John?" Mrs. Hudson touched his shoulder and knocked him out of his stupor. "John, did you hear what I said? Your phone is ringing."

John stood up and listened for the ringing. It seemed to be coming from the hallway. Without responding to Mrs. Hudson, John followed the sound until he was in Sherlock's room again. The phone was on Sherlock's unmade bed.

Scooping up his phone, John sat at the edge of the bed and pressed the button to speak, "Hello?"

There was silence on the other end, John was almost positive that he missed the call until he heard a muffled reply, "Dr. Watson, how's the leg?" The connection seemed to be very weak, and he couldn't recognize the voice on the other end.

"Um… who is this?" John felt his heart stop in his chest and his skin go cold.

_Whoever this was… they couldn't be someone good._

The only people who knew about his PTSD where Sherlock, Mycroft, Mary, and his therapist Ella. There was no way that he knew the voice on the other end, but they seemed to know him…

"Who's calling?" John asked again, gripping the blanket beneath him. He tried to remain calm, but as the silence continued to lengthen he felt worse and worse.

_Hang up the phone._

_Hang up the phone now._

"An admirer. In fact, I once knew you in your army days, though you may not remember me. I imagine that an Army Doctor sees quite a few patients during his time in Afghanistan, so I won't hold any of it against you if you can't remember."

John still wasn't sure how to feel about the stranger on the other end, "What's your name?"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, August 2006. You assisted another doctor in removing shrapnel from my chest and arms. I was discharged and sent back home soon after."

_Moran._

_Sebastian Moran?_

John remembered the name, but not from a patient back in Afghanistan. He remembered it as the name of the unknown assassin working for Moriarty. The assassin from the file that disappeared from the flat awhile back.

"Uh… yes, how may I help you Colonel? How did you get my number?" John bit his lower lip and tried to remain as calm and quiet as he could. He didn't want to make it sound as if he recognized the name from Mycroft's files. This phone call screamed danger in every way.

"Ah, well, Dr. Watson… answering petty questions won't get us anywhere, I'd rather get to the point: How much do you miss Sherlock Holmes?"

John wanted to hang up the phone right then, he could feel bitterness course through him, like adrenalin in his veins. This man was trying to mock his pain and find anything that would set him off.

_His leg._

_Sherlock Holmes._

_What else would Moran use to hurt him?_

"Why are you interested?"

There was a muffled laugh on the other end, "Why do you _think_, Watson? What do you know of me? What do you _even know_ about your friend Sherlock Holmes?"

"Why are you so interested in us? Sherlock Holmes is dead, I saw it happen."

"So why are you still trying to get involved in things that do not concern you?"

"I could ask you the same," John was standing now, pacing the room with slow steps.

"You have no idea, Dr. Watson. I think you underestimate me. I bet you didn't know that one pull of a trigger could take away your life. I bet you had no idea how Moriarty really died, or what he died for. In fact, I doubt that you _even know_ why Sherlock Holmes killed himself."

"What do you want from me," John could feel his voice begin to waver, he knew that it would be impossible to hang up now. He needed to know what this bastard wanted of him, he wanted to find this man and kill him.

_Maybe then he'd be truly safe._

_Maybe then he could ask Mary to come back into his life without the fear of her being harmed._

"I'm glad you asked. I want you to come to the ruined Newspaper plant on King Street, beside the Merchant's Hall. Tonight at 11:30pm. We have much to discuss, and I'm afraid that if you choose to tell anyone or decide not to come at all… a friend of mine would be happy to have her own little chat with Ms. Morstan."

"Are those all your terms?"

"Well, I'd tell you that bringing weapons is against the rules… but that wouldn't be as fun would it?"

John was silent.

"You can choose to not speak if you wish, Dr. Watson. But I know much more about the inner workings of your brain than you might think. You're not a cautious man, and I trust that you haven't had this much danger in your life for a long while, so enjoy it while it… lasts. Goodbye for now, I expect to see you sooner rather than later."

The voice disappeared with a click and John was back to being alone with his phone still at his ear. He felt numb with anxiety and anticipation. Without hesitating a minute longer, John looked at the time on his phone.

_9:23 pm_

_About two hours to go._

John strode out of Sherlock's bedroom without looking back, the door swung behind him as he passed a worried Mrs. Hudson on the way to his own bedroom. There wasn't time for him to think about the phone call, or respond to the questions that wanted to surface in his mind. Mrs. Hudson was trying to speak to him but he didn't hear a word she said. Once he got into his room, John opened the drawer to his nightstand and looked down at the sleek handgun.

After fishing around for some bullets and a switch blade, he was ready to go with loads of time to spare. Since the cab ride would take him about an hour, he decided to try to eat something in the meanwhile.

Nothing wanted to move down his throat, and after useless attempts at trying to eat a sandwich, he gagged on it and ended up drinking water from the tap to wash everything down into his stomach.

John was going back to the battlefield, but this time he wouldn't have a genius detective to follow. There may not be a return journey but this time, John didn't care. But he wouldn't go down without a fight, and he'd definitely give anything to save his remaining friends. Because friends did protect people, and he needed to protect his friends.

**(Sorry that this update was so late, there was a lot of editing so that it would be just right. Merry Christmas to everyone celebrating today! I hope to update with the next chapter by this weekend, but it depends on how busy I am this week. Sorry for the delayed suspense, but I hope you are still enjoying it, and don't hesitate to review this and tell me what you think. The input really helps me with my motivation. Thanks and have a happy holiday!)**


	32. Greater Incentive

The drive to London would be long and testing for Sherlock, especially since Mycroft was in no rush to tell him everything that needed to be said. Drumming his fingers against the windowsill, Sherlock watched little trails of rainwater roll down the glass. He was tempted to follow the streams with the tip of his index finger, it would definitely pass the time much quicker, but Mycroft would never approve of it. Mycroft resented any form of childish behaviour, always had. Sherlock may have tried to act more responsibly on occasion, but he was much more satisfied with finding a way to grate on his older brother's nerves.

"Give it to me, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured with vague disinterest. Sherlock looked over at him and bit down some choice words he wouldn't mind saying. He felt the packet of cigarettes in his pocket, ensuring that it was still there.

"No," Sherlock replied with indifference, hoping that the topic would be either changed or abandoned altogether.

_What do you need to tell me?_

_How is John?_

_Is he safe, is he well?_

_Is he in trouble?_

_Why can't you tell me anything right now?_

_Why must you treat me like a small child still?_

"Sherlock, I thought you were going to quit for good this time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and touched his index finger to the glass of the car window. He followed a particularly stubborn drop of water as it wove down the glass.

_If Mycroft was going to play parent again, Sherlock would be the child._

"Sherlock, are you listening to me? Don't you remember what happened with the first assassin? You could have killed yourself with the amount of drugs you consumed. I thought you were going to make an honest effort this time, for Joh-"

"Why aren't you telling me about John?" Sherlock interrupted, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "You asked me to follow you to London, I assumed it was _important_, so why are you not telling me anything?"

Mycroft sighed and remained silent for a couple minutes, Sherlock felt wired and ready to snap. He waited for Mycroft to say something, _anything_.

"Sherlock. I was going to wait until I had confirmation from my employees, but I need you on hand. I cannot tell you everything in the backseat of a car, it will only make the remainder of this ride much more unbearable."

"You could save time by telling me now. Waiting until we get to your_ ridiculous_ office will only make it take longer for us to get Moran. I don't know what I'm up against, I need to be ready for anything. You're making it sound as if John is on death's door, yet you seem perfectly at ease with telling me _nothing_."

This time, Mycroft _did_ look over at Sherlock, there was a solemnness to his expression that Sherlock didn't like. It was unsettling, and Sherlock was ready to open the car door and just get out now.

_He wanted to run._

_Run until he got to Baker Street._

_Climb the staircase until he had John in his arms._

_To shield his friend from any enemies or gunmen who could shoot him._

_The bullets would only hit Sherlock._

_He'd die a real hero._

_It would spoil Mycroft's plan of attack, but it was better than letting John get shot._

_Alone and unprotected. _

"Sherlock, it will take approximately twenty minutes to reach my building. From there, you will receive further instruction. As for John, all that we know at this point in time is that one of the employees working for James Moriarty has contacted Dr. Watson. We believe it's Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second in command. As we speak, I have my people trying to recover the phone call and the information exchanged within the call."

"Have you been watching the flat across from the flat on Baker Street? You've mentioned before that one of those assassins from the case-files moved into the flat opposite ours."

"There were two assassins living there, actually. Both seem to be alive still, but the flat has been empty for almost three years now. Since you faked your death, the remaining assassins from Baker Street seemed to vanish, and those two are the only ones we are determined to find before long." Mycroft pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "I imagine you've been hiding something from me Sherlock. Best tell me now."

Sherlock looked over at him with confusion for a moment before he realized that Mycroft didn't know about the photos of John that he found with the second major assassin. Even though Sherlock didn't see it as helpful at this point in time, he supposed that he should at least let Mycroft know that someone had been spying and photographing John Watson for the past while. "When I killed the second assassin in that alleyway, I found some photographs in his pocket. They were photos of John in different locations and at different times. Those photos are back at Ire-" Sherlock realized that he was about to mention Irene Alder's involvement, even though Mycroft still thought that she had been killed three years ago. He couldn't mention her, Irene's survival was their secret and no-one else was to know. "-at my temporary flat. I would have brought them with me if I had expected you'd take me away tonight."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, probably suspecting something but deciding it wasn't important enough, "Pity… If we finish off Moran by tonight, I'll make sure that any of your extra belongings are removed from that flat before anyone else finds it. Do you happen to have _anything_ with you besides those cigarettes?"

Sherlock breathed a laugh and looked out the side window. The landscape had changed by now, they were already entering London. There wasn't any point in answering Mycroft's question, he already knew the answer. Sherlock only had some money, his cell phone, a lighter, and the cigarettes. Nothing else.

"Is this it, Mycroft?" Sherlock didn't need to be specific, Mycroft would have known that this was the biggest question on his mind.

_Is this it?_

_The end of the line?_

_If he killed Sebastian Moran tonight, would this all be finished?_

_Would John be safe?_

_Would Sherlock be safe enough to go home?_

_Was there any chance of a return?_

Sherlock felt his brother's hand gently pat his shoulder for a moment. It was Mycroft's own small way of showing sentiment for his younger brother. "I don't know, Sherlock. One can only hope."

They arrived in front of the Diogenes Club soon after, Mycroft escorting his brother through a narrow hallway towards a private office labeled "Mr. Mycroft Holmes". Mycroft offered Sherlock a seat before his desk, but he refused. It was obvious from his composer that Sherlock was very nervous. Almost as high strung as he was while residing in the basement apartment soon after the faked suicide.

"Have you heard_ anything_?" Sherlock asked as he paced the small room. His eyes were trained on Mycroft's cell phone, as if it would ring any moment with a text revealing more information about John.

"Sherlock, sit down," Mycroft glanced at his recent texts with boredom. If anything, it just made Sherlock feel even more furious with anxiety, but he sat down in spite of himself.

"There needs to be_ something_. The call that John received was nearly two hours ago according to what you told me in the car. It' not surprising that it's taken this long for you to get this far. Too much legwork? You're all just a bunch of arrogant prats," Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his brother.

Mycroft was visibly frustrated with Sherlock and no doubt he was insulted by Sherlock's words, but he seemed to remain indifferent through his emotions quite well. "As a matter of fact, I just received acknowledgement that Dr. John Watson left his flat at Baker Street a few moments ago and seems to be taking a taxi somewhere."

"Where?"

"We are uncertain at the moment."

"And what am I to do?"

"Nothing."

Standing from the chair, Sherlock loomed over Mycroft's deck, "What? You expect me to stay in this retched office with you while your employees do the job?"

"That's exactly what I expect of you," Mycroft replied with a small smile. Sherlock was speechless, he didn't know how to respond.

_Friends protect people._

_Sherlock had to protect John._

"No," Sherlock spoke and strode out of the office as fast as he could.

_There wasn't any time to delay. _

_He needed to find John._

_He needed to find Sebastian Moran._

_He needed to end this._

Sherlock took out his mobile and texted Irene, it was the only way that he could do this without Mycroft's help now.

_Where is John meeting him? SH_

Leaving the building, Sherlock looked down the street and waited to spot a cab. Irene's reply lit up the screen:

_Newspaper Plant. On King's Street. _

A taxi came into view and Sherlock waved it down. As soon as he got into the cab, he gave the driver the location and looked back at his phone. He realized that there was a new message on the screen. The name of the caller caught his eye and he felt his heart stop in his chest.

_John Watson_

After a small hesitation, Sherlock opened up the message:

_I'm lost without you. Please come back. JW_

**(I got straight to work on this chapter because I'm really excited about writing the next two. I'm not sure when I'll update next because there's going to be a LOT of work put into the next two chapters, but I hope to update with at least one chapter at some point next week. We're not anywhere near the end of this fanfic, so don't worry, there's much more to come. Thank you so much for the reviews and the holiday wishes, I hope you enjoy!) **


	33. Lost

John waited for something to happen, anything. He stared at the screen on his cell phone and wished for a miracle. He couldn't remember the last time that he had texted Sherlock's number. Looking towards the cab window, he realized that all his surroundings had changed, they were in an entirely different part of London. There was too much darkness on the road, the buildings that they drove past were vacant ruins of old factories and warehouses.

These sorts of buildings seemed to be a popular spot for crime, John could easily remember the different cases that they had taken from Lestrade. The light on John's phone dimmed and he noticed that there was only a few minutes until the expected meeting time with Sebastian Moran. Leaning back on the seat, John tried to breathe in and out, he felt tense and cold all over. Maybe it was from the weather, maybe it was from the nerves.

Though it had rained a little earlier that day, there was a faint snow falling now. The cab wasn't too warm, but that wouldn't matter for much longer. King Street was straight ahead at the next small intersection. John straightened up in his seat and cleared his throat, trying to think.

_There was a handgun strapped to his belt._

_Cell phone went into his left pocket._

John looked at his hands as they mildly shook, he curled them into fists on his lap and tried to breathe evenly.

_This is it._

_This has to be the end._

For a moment, he wondered if he should have called Mycroft or Lestrade, any backup would have made him feel a little more comfortable about all this. At least if someone knew where he was. But then again, Moran had mentioned that no-one else was to know about this.

_Would breaking the rules be such a crime though?_

_He was already pretty much walking to his death._

_Maybe._

"Here it is, sir. Are you sure you don't want me to wait here? Cabs don't go this way." The cab driver turned towards John and looked at him with a little bit of concern.

_Was John's anxiety that obvious?_

"No, it's alright. I may not need a cab back, and I don't know how long I'll be. If anything, I could call someone afterwards." John fished into his left pocket and found some change beside his phone, "Here you go, thank you." After exchanging a quick reassuring smile, John stepped out of the cab and started to limp closer to the large empty building in front of him. He looked back to watch the cab drive away and turn a corner.

There was no doorway visible from the front of the abandoned newspaper plant, only something that resembled a doorway (and it was completely blocked off with wooden panels). Without hesitating any longer, John limped toward the right corner of the building, wishing that he had brought his cane with him. Either way, he felt like he looked weak, easy to control, and he knew that Moran would use that as an advantage.

When he got to the side of the building, there was a metal doorway opened slightly in plain sight. It was probably an invitation. John pondered the doorway for a moment, wondering if he really wanted to do this. Suddenly there were second thoughts and worries, the pain in his leg seemed to worsen. Wincing at the pain, he leaned onto his other leg and exhaled, the cold made his breath easily visible. He moved towards the doorway and stepped into a cold dark space. Machinery was lined up in rows before him, and there was just enough light coming from higher windows above him that he could see a little pathway that lead to a different part of the building.

The phone in his pocket chimed loudly and echoed all around John. He quickly buried his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Hello?" he whispered, his heart beginning to race.

"Thank you for arriving on time, Dr. Watson. I'm glad that you followed all the instructions correctly, it will make this so much easier." The voice was calculated and low, sending a shiver up John's spine.

"Where are you?"

"How's your shoulder, John?" John blinked and stopped breathing for a moment.

_First, Moran asked about the leg._

_Now the shoulder._

_… Why?_

"How did you know-"

There was a faint sound of laughter coming from the phone, "What _don't_ I know about you, Dr. Watson. You're a very interesting man. I've studied you, you know."

"Show your face, you bastard. I'm not playing this game. This ends _now_," John turned around and tried to look for anyone hiding in the darkness. By now, his eyes had adjusted, but there was no way to know who could be hiding somewhere in here.

"You're quite brave, Dr. Watson. I admire that, you're the perfect soldier. You seem to handle pain well… I promise this won't hurt a bit."

"What do you-" John felt a sharp pain strike the back of his left shoulder, and gasped from the shock. Something was lodged into his skin, he reached for source of the pain and his hands came back warm and bloodied. Looking down at the red glistening on the palm of his hand, his vision lost focus. Breathing became too difficult, his legs collapsed from under him and he felt to the cement ground. The back of his shoulder was pulsing with heat and pain, spreading to his left arm and the back of his neck. The intensity of the pain began to numb his senses, everything was fading around him. John tried to hold on to consciousness, as he watched a shadowed figure walk towards him.

_Everything went dark and silent._

_He was shot, but he didn't want to believe it._

_John felt the bullet, he wasn't fast enough, he didn't duck in time._

_There was so much noise, but now it was gone._

_Another solider came to his side, his mouth was moving but there were no words._

_There was so much pain._

_He could feel it everywhere in his chest._

_It was so hot, but everything was becoming cold._

_An explosion moved the ground._

_Hand grenade?_

_Possibly, not too far away._

_Dirt was in his eyes now, his mouth too._

_The solider was pressing a hand to his shoulder._

_To stop the blood?_

_How much blood was there?_

_It hurt so much, and he was making it worse._

_John cried out but he couldn't hear anything, not even his own scream._

_This was a dry land, but the ground was becoming wet around him._

_It was liquid, the ground used to be solid but now it was moving too much._

_He wanted it to stop._

_Make it stop._

_There wasn't enough oxygen or warmth._

_It was all leaving._

_More hands were on him, touching his chest, his face._

_The pain was getting worse._

_How was that possible?_

_Was he dying?_

_Is this how it ends?_

_Please God let me live._

_If he could say anything, that's what he would say._

_Then there was nothing._

"He's awake…"

John's eyes shot open at the sound of someone's voice, it was different from the voice that he spoke to on the phone. There was dim light coming from the window beside him, John found himself leaning against a wall, crumpled on a cold floor in a large empty room. He felt sick and weak, vomit threatened to come up his throat but he tried to swallow it down. Pushing himself up from the ground, he grunted in pain. The back of John's left shoulder pulsed harshly when he leaned on his left arm.

He noticed that there was a table across from him, not too far away. His handgun was lying on it's surface along with his mobile phone. With some determination, he gripped the wall behind his back with both his hands and tried to push himself up to stand. The pain in his left shoulder and arm were unbearable, John's eyes burned with tears from the intense throbbing ache that ran through the left half of his torso.

Stumbling away from the wall, he limped towards the table and scooped up the phone and gun. Gripping the gun in his hand, he felt the ache creep down his fingers. John turned to look for the voice that he had heard only moments ago, but there was no-one in sight. John could feel a chill touch his back as it swept from the open window, he shivered and leaned onto the table.

"Who's there?" he called out, glaring into the shadows. The room was dingy and got gradually darker farther from the window. John felt his heart skip a beat when a figure came from the shadows and stepped closer into the light.

The man looked familiar, but John couldn't figure out exactly where he remembered his face from. John stumbled back a step and almost tripped over one of the table legs. After swallowing down the lump in his throat, John pointed his handgun at the stranger in front of him.

_This must be Sebastian Moran._

Moran smiled and breathed a laugh when he looked at the handgun, "Go ahead, try to shoot me. It won't do you any good, I removed all the bullets," opening his right fist, John watched the bullets tumble from Moran's fingers and roll along the ground.

John was wounded and weaponless. The chances of him getting out of this alive were very slim since Moran already had the advantage. "Why are you doing this?"

Sebastian Moran pulled a thin dagger from his belt, it looked worn and dulled from too much use, the sight of it made John feel even colder. He held onto the gun, ready to use it if necessary. There may not be bullets, but it was a hard metal object that could be used to strike Moran. One good hit to he temple, and John could either knock him unconscious or kill him.

"Because you need to be taught a lesson, John Watson." Moran put his arms behind his back and stepped toward him. John wanted to move back farther, but he was cornered between the table and the window behind him. Leaning back onto the cool glass, John hoped that it would numb the pain for now.

"It's come to my attention that you have too many friends with authority… I don't need to name names, but there are quite a few. And as you know, all of these _friends_ are only connected to you through your relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he was directly in front of John now, his face turned towards the ground as he kicked a couple bullets away from his feet.

"What of it?" Faces popped up in John's head: Mycroft, Greg Lestrade. To be fair, this had nothing to do with either one of them… at least John didn't think so.

"You've been seeking assistance, looking for information…" Moran looked up at John quizzically, as if he was waiting for John to explain himself.

"What makes you think I've been asking for their help? And for _what_? Clearing Sherlock's name? Looking for safety? How would you kn-"

Moran's fist hit the table beside them, it stunned John into silence. There was an expression of pure hatred and anger in the man's eyes, and John felt his hands shake against the window sill.

"When Sherlock Holmes' heart stopped beating, you should have left. You were supposed to _run_. It was not your place to concern yourself with matters involving Jim Moriarty."

John was enraged now, gripping the gun in his left hand and ready to strike, "How was it not my place? Moriarty strapped a bomb to my chest once, he eyed Sherlock like a _meal_. I was used as bate, I was _used_ to that villain's advantage in their little game! And how was I supposed to stand by and move on after watching… Sherlock… _die_. Right there. I watched him fall and I couldn't save him. How would _you_ know what that's like?"

Moran took another step forward, his mouth beside John's left ear, "I know more than you think. It was only after everyone left that I found his body… Jim Moriarty's. He was on that roof, a bullet through his brain and a pool of blood around his head. Believe me, Dr. Watson, _I know_." Moran put a hand to John's left shoulder and pressed into the new wound there, his thumb and index finger digging into the bloodied skin. John cried out in pain but tried to stay quiet and calm, biting his lower lip until he tasted blood.

_Rache_

"Revenge… Is that what this is? You think that because Sherlock killed Moriarty… now you have to kill me? Make it even? Man for man?" John winced and smiled at Moran, the blood tasted wrong in his mouth. Moran was close enough that John could spit in his eye and then hit him over the head. Maybe it'd be lethal. Then maybe John could make a run for it.

_Or maybe he could just surrender to death._

Moran smiled back, it was genuine and hideously insane, "No… not _yet_. Death is too kind, you don't deserve that. I'd rather like to carve a message for your Sherlock Holmes."

"He's dead, that will do no good." John felt like he might pass out, his lungs were working too quickly. Moran stopped smiling as his hand moved to John's neck, squeezing until John could only choke for air.

"You're talking too much, John Watson. Come to think of it, you're _breathing _too much as well. I'll have to fix that," he grunted as the nails of his fingers dug into the skin on John's neck.

John couldn't stop blinking, everything was getting too blurry and he didn't know if it was from the water in his eyes or the shot from earlier, or even the limited oxygen supply causing his brain to shut down. He could feel something cold against the bare skin just under his collar bone, Moran had something sharp pointed against the flesh there.

The way that Moran had forced John's head up against the window pane made it impossible for him to see the man's face, or the knife in his hand, or even the fresh blood that was now dripping down John's chest and soaking into his clothes.

"How…" Moran started to whisper against John's jaw, "do you know… that your beloved Sherlock Holmes… is dead?" John felt tears start to roll down his face now, he whimpered and tried to swallow in as much oxygen as he could, but the hold around his throat was too tight. He wanted to kick or hit Sebastian Moran, but he body was too weak. Everything that he had learned in the military was useless, because this man was in the military as well, and John was just an army doctor.

_This is it._

_It's over._

John felt himself weaken, and everything go numb as he let go of Moran's shoulders. He couldn't hold on anymore, his eyes blinked more rapidly and he felt the blood drain from his face and hands. His left shoulder and chest burned with fresh wounds, the wet blood cooled his skin but it didn't make him feel any better.

_There's no pleading for mercy this time._

_There was none._

Just as his hands slipped from Moran's shoulders, Moran gasped with a cry of pain and John was freed from the choke-hold. Sebastian Moran was being dragged away from him by someone else, but John couldn't see. His vision was spotted with black as he gasped for oxygen as he felt his lungs spasm and his heart beat begin to soar again. John leaned off of the glass window and coughed as he listened to Moran grunt and writhe on the ground.

John blinked up at the person who was beating up Moran. Something was familiar about the way that the stranger moved over John's offender. John tried to remain standing, clutching at the window sill as he dropped the gun, his other hand was against his neck, rubbing at the bruised skin there. He wanted to ask this stranger who he was, why he was saving him. He wondered if this was someone working for Mycroft, maybe they followed John here to save him from potential danger.

The man grunted when he shot Moran in the chest. The sound of the bullet was sharp and loud in John's ears, it was too overwhelming for him. But Moran stopped moving, he was dead.

_But the voice…_

_It was…_

Then there was a shattering of glass behind John's back, he felt something sharp hit the back of his left shoulder again, right over the spot where he was hit earlier (also where he was wounded in Afghanistan). This time, the pain was completely consuming, John fell to the ground when he felt the bullet lodge into his shoulder. It didn't go all the way through his shoulder, he could feel the familiar ache of the bullet, more blood was pooling around the area of impact, soaking into his jacket and shirt.

John was kneeled against the ground with his palms spread out on the concrete, he was shaking all over now and this time he really knew that he was dying.

"John!" the voice was so muffled, out of focus. John noticed that the ground was moving in waves again, it was liquid under his fingers.

_Like Afghanistan all over again._

"John… _John_," the voice was so familiar but John couldn't think, couldn't understand. There were arms pulling him over so that he was now lying back, but he wasn't on the ground anymore, there was a body beneath him, arms around his chest.

"No, no, no." John breathed the words as he tried to escape from those arms.

_He recognized the voice now._

_But he didn't want to hear it. _

_It could only mean that the voice was back._

_Or that this was death._

"John, please look at me, please stay," the voice faded in and out, but he could hear it. John blinked up and looked at the face looming over him, it was Sherlock.

Sherlock was smiling down at him and there were tears rolling down his cheeks, real tears. John reached up to his face and cupped his palm around the left side of Sherlock's face.

_It was tangible._

_It was solid._

_There was warmth in that skin._

_There was flesh and bone._

_John thought about their last conversation._

_He thought about how he told Sherlock's voice to leave him._

_And how Sherlock had obeyed… _

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock… I'm so sorry, I didn't want you to go… I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have made you go. You were right… about everything. I was… just too stupid… And now you're here…" John swallowed some of the blood in his mouth and tried to breathe, everything was so laboured and weak, he winced at the pain, "You're late."

**(I'm so so sorry for the cliffhanger here! But I had to end it there so that the next chapter is from Sherlock's POV. I was writing this all weekend and I just finished writing this chapter a couple minutes ago. I hope to update with the next chapter as soon as I can, maybe in another couple of days. There's still so much more to come, and I'm really sorry for all the heartbreak that I may cause with this. Thank you for the comments and as bad as it sounds... I hope you continue to enjoy this.)**


	34. Late Apologies

_He had seen it._

_Everything._

_Sherlock watched as Moran tortured and wounded him._

_It was too much._

_After all this time, it needed to stop now._

_But he needed the perfect moment._

_And this was it._

Sherlock ran from the dark doorway towards Sebastian Moran. John was in so much pain, _that_ much was clear. Pulling Moran by the collar of his jacket, Sherlock dragged the man away from John.

Moran was going to put up a fight, and Sherlock was going to beat him. After watching everything that this man had done to John, Sherlock couldn't help hitting him with all the strength in him. When his fists began to ache too much, Sherlock got a better idea.

_Where's the gun?_

_Grab the gun._

_Point the gun._

_Pull the trigger._

One bullet silenced the man on the ground, and in almost the same moment, there was an entirely different noise.

_Shattered glass._

_John._

Sherlock looked up to see John stumble from the broken window and fall to the ground. His heart skipped a beat when he realized what had just happened.

_John was shot._

"John!"

Everything seemed like it was happening too slow, painfully slow. Sherlock stumbled towards John, who was crumpled and shaking. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know what was going to happen next. Pulling John into his arms, Sherlock looked up at the window and could see someone standing behind the window of the building opposite. He could just make out the smile on the man's face, the sniper rifle in his hand.

_Wait… _

_Sherlock hadn't killed Sebastian Moran._

_The man staring at him now, was the real one._

_That was obvious now._

_This had been part of the game._

_To use John as bait, to torture him._

_To make Sherlock reveal himself._

_Now Sebastian Moran knew that Sherlock was alive._

_And there was no way to kill him from here._

"John… _John_," Sherlock felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_Don't die, please don't._

Sherlock held onto him and hoped that John would respond. He didn't care about hiding himself anymore, he needed John to know that he was here.

_Alive._

John looked up at Sherlock for only a moment before weakly trying to pull away "No, no, no," John's voice was so rough and broken, there were already bruises forming on his neck.

Sherlock didn't want him to pull away, he wanted to see John's eyes, hear his voice. It had been so long, too long. "John, please look at me. Please stay," Sherlock cradled him in his arms, his heart felt too heavy in his chest and he didn't know how that was possible.

John looked back up at Sherlock, he blinked up at him like a tired child, his eyes searching. Sherlock tried to smile, it was supposed to be reassurance.

_You're safe, John._

_You're alright._

_You're going to live._

John was starting up at him as if he was analyzing every feature on Sherlock's face. Sherlock stared back into his eyes, trying to hold on to him for as long as he could. And now John was putting his hand to Sherlock's face, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock… I'm so sorry, I didn't want you to go… I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have made you go. You were right… about everything. I was… just too stupid… And now you're here… You're_ late_."

_No._

_No._

_No._

Sherlock didn't know what to say, he bit his lip and tried to think as fast as he could. Mycroft was on his way, they'd be here any minute. "I can't have been that late, I still came to save you… didn't I?"

_You're not dying, John._

_There's still enough time to save you._

_There has to be._

John clutched onto Sherlock's coat, it reminded Sherlock of the hallucination he had after killing the first assassin, when he thought he saw John coming to his rescue. He remembered holding on so tight, because he didn't want to leave. And now their roles were reversed, but this wasn't a hallucination… this was _real_.

"Sherlock, I said some things to you… things I regret. There was… so much more. I just needed… a chance." John was getting much weaker now, his eye lids were drooping. Sherlock held onto him so that John wouldn't fall from his arms.

"What is it, John. Tell me now," Sherlock tried to seem as calm as he could, he needed to keep John talking, he needed to keep John conscious.

"I love you, Sherlock. I… always have, but it was… just too… difficult to say. I love you, I really do. Please stay this time… stay with me." Sherlock put his fingers to the wrist of John's hand and felt the slow pulse.

"I love you too John, you're all I have… just don't die on me. Please, I need you to stay awake," Sherlock held him closer, his head was now resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

John breathed a very weak laugh, "But… you died on me. You left me. I was so _alone_…" He was crying, he looked so scared.

Sherlock heard movement coming from the hallway outside of this room, but he didn't let his eyes leave John's for a moment, "But I'm here, with _you_. I'm back. I'm still the same person, the same Sherlock Holmes. And there's so much to say, so I need you to stay with me."

John touched Sherlock's face, running his finger tips weakly over his forehead, his nose and lips. "No, you're not the same. I can tell… there's something… different about you. So different."

"But still me," Sherlock replied as he took John's hand in his own. John's gaze shifted to their entwined hands. He licked his lips and looked back up at Sherlock again. Sherlock shifted his arm against John's back and could feel the blood from the bullet wound against his hand, it was already soaking through the material of his coat.

There was something in John's eyes that he couldn't quite understand, but Sherlock could tell that there was meaning attached to it. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John's forehead, it was so hot against his lips, feverish in fact. Then Sherlock lowered his face until their noses grazed against each other. He looked into John's eyes and felt his weak exhale against his own lips, moving in closer, Sherlock gently kissed his lips. John hesitated, becoming a little more stiff in his arms, but he kissed him back.

_Their first kiss._

_And maybe their last._

Sherlock felt John shiver against him, he gripped onto John a little tighter with his arm circled around his back, being careful not to touch the bullet wound. Foot steps got closer to them, but Sherlock only concentrated on him, pulling back enough so that he could keep eye contact with John. He pulled his coat around to cover some of John's chest. The room was freezing, both of them were shaking and Sherlock was already beginning to feel numb in his limbs.

_Stay awake._

_Stay here, John._

_Please just stay awake._

"Sherlock! Get out of the way, we need to get to him," it was Mycroft's voice, sounding much too hollow in this large room. Sherlock didn't want to let go of John, and he seemed to feel the same way. The grasp that John had on Sherlock's hand restricted the blood flow in his fingers, but he didn't care.

A heavy hand pulled at Sherlock's shoulder and someone else grabbed hold of John. There was a stretcher on the ground now, and a couple suited men were pulling John away.

"Sherlock," it was Mycroft again, but much closer this time, his voice was beside Sherlock's right ear. John was still looking at Sherlock, his eyes widened at getting pulled away from Sherlock, but he was already beginning to fade into unconsciousness. Blood loss and pain did that. Finally letting go of John's hand, Sherlock watched as he got carried away, and he tried to keep eye contact for as long as he could. Just as the stretcher passed him, Sherlock glanced at the limp arm of his friend hanging over the side of the stretcher. John's eyes were closed now, only sleeping, not dead. He wouldn't die, the bullet didn't hit his heart or any of his other vital organs.

_He was sure of it._

Mycroft patted his back and then moved towards the window. Sherlock watched him from the ground, remaining motionless and crumpled as he listened to John being taken away from him.

_He remember the day he had faked his death._

_How he lay motionless and bloody on the sidewalk._

_How John refused to leave his side. _

_How John pulled at his wrist to check the pulse, only to find none._

_And then Sherlock got carried away on a stretcher._

_Getting farther and farther away from John._

_Knowing that John believed him to be dead._

The pain in Sherlock's chest in this moment made him realize the impact of his actions. What it must have done to John, and then the three years since. Sherlock had tried to keep him safe while John believed that he himself had failed.

Getting pulled back to the present, Sherlock felt someone pull at his own wrist, checking his pulse. He jerked away from the stranger and curled in on himself, trying to hide his face since he knew Mycroft was watching him.

_Could Mycoft see the guilt in his eyes?_

_The heartbreak?_

_Could Mycroft read his mind?_

_Did he observe Sherlock's entire conversation with John?_

_Did he see the kiss?_

Sherlock cringed, hoping that Mycroft couldn't see right through him. Sentiment was a downfall, and Mycroft would laugh at him.

"Get up, Sherlock. John's going straight to the hospital. We need to get you sorted straight away. The consequences of what happened tonight could change everything. You need to get back into safety, unseen. You were-"

"What's the _use_, Mycroft? Sebastian Moran already knows I'm alive. He saw the whole thing from over there," Sherlock pointed towards the wide window, his eyes on a small hole was in the glass from where the bullet came through. There were cracks around the bullet hole, a spider web of shattering glass. "I fell for the bait, I came here and saved John, I killed Moran's little assistant… whoever he was. But it was all a trick and I fell for it."

Mycroft walked closer to his brother, an umbrella under his arm. "Sherlock, please-"

"No. Stop telling me what to do. I'm the reason John was shot just now. I'm the reason he's bleeding out, alone. I'm _sick_ of standing by, doing nothing. I need to fix this on my own." The words were bitter in Sherlock's mouth, poisonous.

"You said yourself that this was your fault, why go and possibly put yourself and everyone else at even _more_ of a risk? Let go of that childish pride and-"

"What pride? I've had no pride for almost three years. I told the one person… the _only_ person that I care about, that I'm a fake. I let go of that pride on that rooftop. I haven't had it since. This has _nothing_ to do with pride, Mycroft. I need to go home… I need to find Moran. He's gone now, he got away tonight. I was too late." Sherlock felt defeated, he didn't know what else was needed to be said. If Mycroft didn't understand, he could just bugger off. Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him, he didn't even want to see his face.

"Sherlock. This wasn't all Moran's plan. Something changed, I'm positive of it. Maybe there's a double agent… a spy… something. But the only reason this happened tonight was because Sebastian Moran found out about you, somehow he discovered you are alive. If he knew that before, we would have known too. There was a plan, things like this happen. We need to find the source."

Sherlock felt even colder now, he clutched his arms over his chest and kept his mouth shut. The only thought in his head was of Irene Adler, the possibility of her doing this. Selling him out, even though they were supposed to trust each other. Or maybe Mary Morstan? No, it _couldn't _be.

_Then who?_

Silence was the best option, there wasn't anything else left to be said. Sherlock only felt worse with each minute that passed, he was defeated and weak. Words swallowed his mind and tore at faded wounds. Old scars that had had died long ago were resurfacing.

_No._

_No._

_No._

He ached for a cigarette, or a needle… anything to take this madness away. Anything to dull his senses for only awhile. That was all he needed. Sherlock felt his pockets and remembered the packet of cigarettes he had bought earlier that evening. With shaking, bloodless hands, he rummaged around in every pocket. All of his possessions tumbled to the floor and made echoing sounds that racked at his brain.

_Go away._

_Make it stop._

_Just stop._

There was less in his pockets than what he had expected, only some small change, his mobile phone and the cigarettes. Sherlock tore at the packet with his teeth when his fingers failed to work properly, only to have a few cigarettes fall back to the ground and roll along the floor.

_Foot steps._

_Noise._

_Whispers._

_Too much noise._

Sherlock grasped a cigarette and put it between his lips, not realizing how cold his skin really was. His lips trembled as his hands patted the ground for his lighter. Another wave of panic was washing over him and it only made his hands shake even more.

Someone's hand lowered down before his eyes and he glanced up at it, recognizing the long thin bone structure of Mycroft's fingers. Between two of his fingers was a small lighter. When Sherlock reached up to take it from Mycroft's hand, he felt another hand grasp his wrist, Mycroft's_ other _hand.

With hesitation, Sherlock looked up at his brother's face, trying to keep his own face neutral of expression or emotion. Mycroft wasn't to know how ruled he was by sentiment.

_The battle he had lost._

But this time, instead of his brother smiling down at him with victory in his eyes, there was… pity, and a solemnness to his expression. Mycroft lowered himself to Sherlock's level and let go of his wrist. Being crouched against the ground wasn't going to make it easy for Sherlock to escape him, but for once in his life, this wasn't worth the fight. Brotherly feuds could only go so far before there's a breaking point, or when one chooses to end it.

_Maybe this was an apology._

Mycroft glanced at his face, his arms, the way he sat on the ground in a broken heap. There was sentiment there… it was definitely sentiment. Something that Mycroft had never shown, or even seemed to experience.

"I'm sorry." It was all that he said, it was a weak whisper, but Sherlock could hear it over all the white noise in his brain. And Sherlock decided that this time, and this time only… he'd accept that apology.

**(I'm so happy that I can post this chapter now, I had a small writers block, but it's all resolved and I'm satisfied enough with this chapter. Sorry for the cliffhangers and waiting, I'm glad that I've gotten to write a lot more frequently though. School starts back up again next week, so I'm not sure how much I'll get done and how soon I can update. I hope to publish chapters weekly. So possibly expect the next one to be posted next weekend. thanks for the reviews and comments, I appreciate them all!)**


	35. Not Alright

_Sherlock._

_He was there._

_It was him._

_Oh God._

_Sherlock._

_He was so close._

_His hand was so warm._

_So were his lips._

_Even his eyes._

_They were blue tonight._

_The same eyes._

_The same face._

_The same voice._

_The same Sherlock._

_Oh God._

_This was it._

_The end._

_But Sherlock was gone again._

_The fresh memories were beginning to fade._

_Everything was fading._

_Light and darkness._

_Cold and warm._

_Everything was shifting, transforming._

_John didn't have any control._

_Maybe control was an illusion._

_Something he never possessed. _

_Oh God._

_There was still so much pain._

_But it all seemed so far way._

_He could feel it through the roots in the ground._

_Waves of nausea, pain, throbbing._

_The roots were connected to the veins in his body._

_Little strings that held him together._

_Flesh and bone._

_It was all falling apart again._

_Back to the beginning._

_Maybe this was reincarnation._

_Rebirth into a new form._

_Starting over._

_And if he was starting over, did it mean that he'd finally get control?_

_Would John get to control his own fate?_

_Decide what to do, where to go, who to see?_

_Was he still John?_

_Was this still living?_

_No, it couldn't be._

_Living meant that Sherlock was dead._

_And what he saw this evening was not real._

_It couldn't be._

_He was alive, holding John._

_Sherlock was alive._

_And he was so different._

_So familiar. _

_So contradictory._

_Living and dead._

_Warm and cold._

_He was everything and nothing._

_There was so much feeling in those eyes._

_There was love and pain and fright. _

_All of it was there in those blue eyes._

_Those ever-changing eyes._

_No._

_Stop._

_This was not alright._

_Not at all._

_It was a magic trick._

_Everything was._

_Sherlock was._

_He was there…_

_And then he was gone._

_Maybe he never existed._

_Yes._

_Possibly. _

_Fine._

_Alright._

_It's all fine._

_That means that the pain never existed either._

_Or the love, the emotion, everything._

_All a magic trick._

_Maybe everything was._

_Even life itself…_

_In that case, dying didn't seem so bad._

_What was the point in living in the first place?_

_Inhaling oxygen._

_Exhaling carbon dioxide._

_Such a waste._

_Death meant everything and nothing._

_And there was no pain in it._

_The bullet in Afghanistan could have killed him._

_It should have._

_Why didn't it?_

_What purpose was there in remaining?_

_Why did he cry when Sherlock died?_

_Death was always the best solution._

_He should have let the man go._

_What point was there in pitying the dead?_

_Mourning them?_

_There was so much pain in life._

_The dead probably watched the living and pitied them._

_It was the only possible solution._

_The connection to John's veins were starting to dissolve._

_Every root shrivelled up and rolled away from his feet._

_Bare feet planted against dry ground._

_It was so hot, the sun was burning everything._

_There was a falling sensation._

_The ground was so much closer._

_He wondered if it would hurt._

_Maybe it wouldn't hurt at all._

_Besides, all falls are fatal._

_The pain was crawling up his spine and collecting in his shoulders._

_There was an instance of nothing._

_No sound, taste, touch, smell, sight._

John opened his eyes to see pale light, too much light. He blinked and took a quick inhale of oxygen. He tensed and tried to remember anything that happened, anything that could tell him where he was and why he was here. From the sound, smell, and look of the place… he was in a private hospital room. The light seemed to dim as his eyes got used to it, he blinked again and realized that he was correct in his assumption.

There was so many questions beginning to surface in his mind, but John didn't know what to think of any of it. He would have preferred to rest a little longer rather than trying to understand.

Everything was sore, difficult to move. Tubes and needles were connected to different parts of his arms and chest, pinning him down to the soft hospital mattress. The pain dulled a little when he woke up, but it was still lingering under a veil of drug induced numbness. He looked down at his left hand.

_His dominant hand._

_The hand that was entwined with Sherlocks._

John focused on his fingers, trying to move anything. His thumb and index finger responded with a small twitch, but movement seemed to feel so heavy. His shoulder and upper left arm was wrapped up in cloth bandage, there was bruising around an IV attached to his forearm. The bruises looked to be about two days old, John realized that he must have been unconscious all this time.

His eyes felt so heavy, maybe he was supposed to sleep some more. He supposed that there wasn't anything better to do, sleeping would help time pass much more quickly. Maybe he'd descend back into a half-dreaming, half-dead state.

Closing his eyes, John felt all the tension from wakefulness begin to fade as he sank back down into the mattress. He tried to pull up memories of Sherlock from that night… how long ago was it? Two days ago? Those _memories_ hardly felt like memories now, it had all been more like a dream. Possibly something to help John forgive himself, to help him apologize to Sherlock.

_For everything._

_Before the fall._

_After the fall._

_Mind over matter. _

_A coping mechanism. _

_"John."_

_"Hmmm?"_

_"I'm back."_

_"Yes, I know."_

_"Are you sure about that?"_

_"Yes, I'm sure. I saw you."_

_"How do you know that was me?"_

_"I heard you. I felt you."_

_"I suppose it was the only possible solution."_

_"Where are you now?"_

_"In your mind, John. I've returned."_

_"Right… why, exactly?"_

_"Because you wanted me back."_

_"But I wanted you back before. A long time ago."_

_"Yes, I know."_

_"I asked for a miracle."_

_Silence._

_"Sherlock, I asked for you."_

_"Yes…"_

_"Alive."_

_"Hmm?"_

_"Alive. I wanted you back… alive."_

_"Yes, I know that."_

_"So are you back… Alive, I mean?"_

_"What do you think?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Idiot."_

_"How am I supposed to know?"_

_"I take that back. Even an idiot would know, John."_

_Silence._

_"Sherlock?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"I love you."_

_"Alright."_

_"No strings attached."_

_"Good."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Never-mind…"_

_"What is it, John?"_

_"I said never-mind."_

_"What? Did I say something… not good?"_

_"Just stay with me."_

_"I can do that."_

_"Can you really?"_

_"I can try."_

_"That's all I ask, Sherlock."_

"John?" Hearing the voice, he pulled himself out of unconsciousness as his eyes snapped open to see a familiar face.

_Mrs. Hudson._

"John? How are you, dear?" Mrs. Hudson walked closer to his bedside, she looked so tired and frail. John couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her, everything seemed so far away.

"I'm alright. Feeling a little better actually."

"I'll bet." She sat down in a chair beside his bed and reached to pat his left hand. "You look much better, John. When I got the call… I got here straight away. They removed the bullet from your left shoulder, no permanent damage… but it was still quite bad. And they stitched up the knife wound on your chest too. I suppose I should let a doctor tell you this…" John turned over his hand and reached out to hold hers. He managed a small smile as reassurance. Mrs. Hudson looked incredibly worried, she was probably holding back a lot right now and trying to spare him. But John knew that once he was back to normal again, she'd give him a stern talking to about walking into danger like that.

"I'm sorry," he managed, trying to blink away the drowsiness in his system. It'd be best to get apologies out of the way for now, he was too tired to think of anything else to say.

Mrs. Hudson leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, "It's alright, dear. I don't know much about what happened… but I'm just happy that you're alright now."

_Alright._

_Was he really all that fine?_

Thinking about that word made John feel strange, almost bitter. He didn't know if it was the right phrasing for how he was feeling right now. Even though he had said that he was alright a few minutes ago, it was like a reflex, something that everyone said so that they could spare all the haunting details. But the truth was that he was not alright. Far from it. But Mrs. Hudson didn't have to know that… _no-one_ had to know.

_How was he expected to feel alright after he walked into someone's trap?_

_After getting shot in the same shoulder?_

_Not only that, but then he saw Sherlock._

_He said things to Sherlock, did things._

_And he wasn't sure if any of that was alright at all._

_Hardly acceptable, in fact. _

Mrs. Hudson didn't stay long, the visiting hours were pretty strict for John. Much of his time was spent sleeping, letting time pass without acknowledging it. But it was better that way, he preferred unconsciousness. There wasn't any pain in sleeping, at least not that much. Sleep allowed him to stop having to think about everything, or try to put all the pieces together. Reality didn't make sense… and maybe it didn't have to. But that didn't mean he had to remain in it, it didn't mean he had to try to understand all the questions.

_Too many questions._

_About everything._

"John? Are you awake?" It was a nurse. Probably Martha. John opened his eyes, feeling much better today. Martha was smiling at him, holding a tray of food. John smiled back and tried to push himself up, the pressure that he put on his left shoulder didn't hurt as much. Since the bullet wound was healing well, John didn't need to take as many pain killers. The nurse seemed impressed as she laid the tray on the table beside him.

"You have a visitor this morning. Do you think you're up for it?"

"Who is it?" John leaned over and picked up the tup of tea, putting it to his lips.

"Someone from Scotland Yard. He said his name is Greg. Would you mind seeing him?"

_Greg Lestrade._

"Not at all, I'd like to see him." John put down the mediocre cup of tea and ran a hand through his hair. Martha nodded and left the room to get Lestrade. No doubt Greg would feel a little awkward, he was never the sort to visit people in the hospital like this.

The door opened again, John watched Greg walk inside before the nurse closed the door after him. Greg Lestrade's eyes roamed the little room, "You got a pretty nice room, John. How'd you get something like this?"

"I don't know. Mycroft seems the type to get someone a private room. At least I _think_ it was Mycroft."

"Mycroft Holmes? You still talking to him?" Greg came over to sit in the visitor's chair beside the nightstand.

John picked up his tup of tea again, "Yeah, but not often. I still can't forgive him for what he did." John paused, thinking about how Mycroft gave Moriarty all that information about Sherlock, the tea cup was still at his lips, "You believe me… don't you?"

Greg seemed a little unsure, he shrugged his shoulders, "Yeah, I believe you. It's just everyone else, really… If we could ever find enough evidence, I can promise you that I'd personally clear Sherlock's name. Not that it's really much of a use now… after what happened."

John drank the rest of his tea and put the cup back down, wishing that there was more. He cleared his throat, " Um… Did you ever find out what happened… that night, I mean. I don't remember much, but I was wondering if the Yard heard anything about it."

"That's been kept pretty quiet, the press hasn't even gotten much out of anyone. All I know is that Mycroft Holmes seems to have taken a lot of it upon himself. We don't know who it was or why they shot you. Sorry, mate."

"Greg, whether you believe me or not, I'm sure that it had something to do with Moriarty. I was threatened to go down there, and it was all because of my work with Sherlock."

"John, be serious-"

"I am. Listen, I've been doing everything I can to try to clear Sherlock's name. _You_ know this, _Mycroft_ knows this, Christ, _everyone_ must know it. The newspapers enjoyed laughing at me because of it. But apparently I angered a few people, people who worked for Jim Moriarty. Everything that happened, it was all because they needed to get rid of me, I'm sure of it. They would have killed me that night, they'd do anything to make sure that I can't convince the world that Sherlock wasn't a fraud."

"Alright, John. I believe you. But even so, no-one's going to listen to you _or_ me. If I tried to pin all this on Moriarty, they'd take my job away again. My career has already been tarnished by Sherlock's… _scandal_. I'm lucky enough that I somehow got this job back, no-one would hire me. Unless there's solid evidence that Moriarty was an actual criminal who Sherlock had nothing to do with, I can't say that there's any way that we can find the man who tried to kill you, or even link him to Moriarty for that matter."

"Fine, fine. It's just… how do I know that someone's not planning to try to kill me? How am I expected to go home? I feel like I have made everything worse just by… _surviving_."

Lestrade looked concerned, his gaze fell to the ground. John didn't know what he expected Greg to say or do about any of this. Of course he was right, Lestrade knew the danger in all this. John just wished there was a way to feel safe again, to somehow resolve all this. Maybe it was time to let go of his pride and talk to Mycroft. If anyone had the answers, it was him.

**(I FINALLY finished this chapter! Sorry for the long wait, I started school, and it's already taken a lot of my free time. I'm not sure when I'll be able to find time to write the next chapter, but I'll try to update within the next couple of weeks. Sorry for the delays. I'm still trying to sort out all the events in the next few chapters. Anyways, I hope you are all enjoying this so far, thanks for all the reviews. Have a great weekend!)**


	36. AUTHOR'S NOTE - UPDATE

Hello everyone!

So, it's been awhile since I last posted a chapter of "All Falls Are Fatal", and I feel kind of bad about it because I know that the next few chapters are going to be pretty big (we're close to the reunion). I actually already started writing the next chapter, but I ran into a few problems with the way I was organizing it. I was also hoping to post it much sooner, but school has really gotten busy over the past 3-4 months. I will be finished exams the day after my birthday (April 19 is my last exam day) so after exams, I'll be back to writing the rest of this fanfic.

I hope to finish the whole thing within the next couple of months. Sorry that it's taking so long, but it's novel length already (approximately 300 pages, wow) and there's still around 12 chapters to go. I also hope to start working on some new fics this summer as well, so we'll see how it goes.

The newest chapter will be Sherlock POV, and it's in the aftermath of the Sebastian Moran incident with John. Molly will be making an appearance! :)

I think that's all I'll say for now, I'm sorry that I haven't posted anything until now, I should have at least explained the hiatus a little earlier. But have no fear, there is bound to be new chapters in late April!

Thank you so much for sticking around, I hope that you continue to enjoy my fanfic! Remember to comment on chapters and tell me what you like or don't like, criticism is great, and it helps me improve the story! Just realize that some changes might not happen depending on what I have in mind. I'm still trying to figure out post-reunion stuff. Anyways, I hope that everyone is having a good spring! Next time I post something, it will be an actual chapter, and I'll delete this post when the new chapter is posted. Cheers!

-Isabel


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